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LADY NITHSDALE- 




BRE AKI NG A BUTTERFLY; 

OR, 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 

»k 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“GUY LIVINGSTONE,” “SWORD AND GOWN,” “ BRAKESPEARE, 1 
“MAURICE DERING,” “SANS MERCI,” &c. 


ILLUSTRA TED. 





NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1869. 


-?t\ ( 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “GUY LIVINGSTONE.” 


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transfer 

©. C. PUBLIC LIBRARY 
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CHAPTER I. 


All is vanity. 

Those three words come often hoipe to many 
who never willingly listen to sermon ever so short, 
or sit under preacherWer so winning — ay, and 
to many of creeds, nations, and languages other 
than ours, who have not so much as heard of the 
name of Ecclesiastes. The world’s kaleidoscope 
may shift as it will, with myriad changes of form 
and color ; but the centre-point of the prisms 
bides steadfast and unaltered, round which is 
inscribed the trite old dreary text. Frequent 
amongst the illustrations of its truth are those tri- 
lling disillusions — scarcely amounting to disap- 
j t merits — that affect us when we confess that 

the reality falls somewhat short of the ideal ; that 
i he substance is something coarser in outline, oi- 
ler in proportion, than the foreshadowing. 

feaid a friend to me the other day, 

“ I have tramped and sailed over three parts 
of the globe now ; and I never saw but one thing, 
alive or dead, that thoroughly answered its war- 
ranty — and that was a Cyclone. You must re- 
member that, being an indifferent sailor at all 
times, I ivas just then in a state of mortal fear.” 

Now, the man who thus expressed himself was 
of a temper neither sombre nor sanguine ; not 
given to philosophy — cynical or otherwise ; but 
one who Avent his Avay about the Avorld in a quiet 
Odyssean fashion ; taking the rough and the 
smooth as they came, and keeping, so far as I 
knoAv, his heart Avhole and his digestion unim- 
paired. 

Most of us — putting cases of exceptional luck 
aside — have thought, or Avill think, nearly the 
same. The mountain is lofty, yet not quite so 
stupendous — the river is romantic, yet winds not 
quite so picturesquely — the face is fair, yet not 
quite so lovely — as had been set forth by fancy or 
Avord-painting. In the after-time we* may come 
to dwell in the shadoAv of that same mountain, 
and Avax so jealous of its honor that Ave shall 
scarce alloAV there is its peer among the everlast- 
ing hills ; Ave may float on that same river till Ave 
knoAv and love every rippling eddy and quiet pool, 
and SAvear that there Aoavs seaAvard no pleasanter 
stream ; Ave may look on that same face till we 
are ready to maintain against all comers its sover- 
eignty in beauty. But, if we go back honestly 
to our first impression of any Avonder of nature or 
art that Ave have approached Avith expectation on 
the strain, Ave shall remember a faint reaction, like 
the slackening of a damped cord. 

In the commonplace amusements and pleasures 
of life the apothegm holds specially good. In- 


hundred people, of differ- 
ent ages or sexes, attend any entertainment what- 
eA-er that has been announced Avith a certain 
flourish of trumpets, the odds against some few 
of the number coming aAvay disappointed are 
such as would puzzle Mr. Babbage, or the subtlest 
in the Ring, to compute. 

On these premises it would seem a fact not less 
worthy of record than many set doAvn in the 
Annual Register , that the first ball given at Niths- 
dale House, after the bride AA-as brought home, 
Avas pronounced a thorough success by each and 
eA r ery one Avho assisted thereat, from the royal 
Personage Avho, Avith infinite grace and agility, 
opened first quadrille, down to the linkman with- 
out Avho, Avith a hoarse and unctuous blessing, 
sped the very last of the parting guests. 

The host himself Avould scarcely haA'e claimed 
any share in the social triumph. Hugh, tenth 
Earl of Nithsdale, was a grave, gentle person, now 
someAvhat past middle age. He did not shine in 
ordinary com T ersation — though he could speak 
sensibly enough at need from his place in the 
House — and Avas too shy to be a general favorite. 
Nevertheless, few Avere better loA'ed or esteemed 
by such as kneAV him thoroughly. In his nature 
there Avas not an atom of arrogance or self-asser- 
tion ; but he Avas thoroughly imbued Avith the 
pride of caste, being more careful of the obliga- 
tions than of the privileges of his order. From 
his youth upAvard he had striven, in his oven 
quiet fashion, to the uttermost of his poAver and 
light, to discharge his duty both to God and to 
his neighbor ; and kept the Fifth not less relig- 
iously than the other commandments. So when 
his mother— Avidow of the ninth Earl — found a 
helpmeet for her son soon after he came of age, 
Nithsdale shoAved no signs of rebellion or reluc- 
tance ; though the damsel Avas something hard of 
feature and meagre of frame, and, to say the least 
of it, acidulated in temper. But then she Avas of 
stainless descent, and had wealth enough to par- 
cel-gild richly a faded coronet. 

For many years that couple plodded on togeth- 
er, peacefully if not happily. Indeed, after they 
had once settled down into their places there Avas 
little chance of domestic jars : fretfulness Avas 
simply Avasted on Nithsdale’s grave, placid temper- 
ment; and for domestic jealousy neither gave 
cause. The Earl never — so far as the nearest of 
his intimates kneAA- — suffered his fancy to Avander 
beyond bounds ; and the Countess carried down 
to her grave a virtue absolutely unsullied. 

There Avas born of this marriage only one sick- 
ly boy, Avho died in infancy. The lack of an 
heir perhaps troubled Nithsdale more than he 


8 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


cared to confess even to himself : to such as are 
free from all taint of avarice, it is weary work 
laying up riches without knowing who shall gath- 
er them. Nevertheless, he slackened not a whit 
in the skill and care that he had displayed since 
he came of age in administering a vast encum- 
bered patrimony ; mortgage after mortgage was 
cleared off, acre after acre drained, farmstead aft- 
er farmstead repaired, till the great Nithsdale es- 
tates not only were set free of burden, but in such 
order as to become an agricultural ensample far 
and near. 

When he was left a widower, Hugh of Niths- 
dale felt his bereavement heavily. He had nev- 
er himself cared for country sports, though he 
took care to provide them plentifully for his 
guests ; his own relaxations were chiefly sedentary, 
of mildly scientific kind ; so that most of his time 
was spent within doors. Naturally, the absence 
even of that hard-featured face and spare angular 
figure made a dreary blank, both at fireside and 
board-head ; and just as naturally, after a de- 
cent interval, the Earl began to reflect how that 
blank should be filled. 

Perhaps he had never absolutely regretted the 
first alliance; yet he may have considered that 
in contracting it he had discharged all his duty 
to his house ; and he determined, in wiving again, 
to please only his own fancy. Moreover, there 
was no pi'ivy-councillor, to insist on state-policy 
and the like, since his lady-motlier went to her 
rest. 

The union of January and May is so common 
nowadays that no one thinks of inditing epi- 
thalamia thereon, satiric or otherwise. Never- 
theless there was a certain stir of wonderment in 
the great world w r hen it became noised abroad 
that Lady Rose Marston was. to be the second 
Countess of Nithsdale. In truth there were dis- 
parities betwixt the affianced pair seemingly more 
serious than that of age, though the bride was 
barely in her twentieth year. 

She came of rather a wild stock, and her bring- 
ing-up had been none of the staidest. Her 
mother, Viscountess Daventry, once a famous 
beauty, had not ceased to be dangerous and enter- 
prising; and her father, though too lazy to be 
vicious, had never cared himself to practice any 
virtue, domestic or otherwise, and devoted all the 
energy he could muster to the mismanagement of 
his racing-stable, taking no thought as to the 
training of his olive-branches. From him the 
Lady Rose inherited the long, sleepy brown eyes 
that never grew eager or troubled when a race on 
which a year’s income hung was being won or 
lost by the shortest of heads ; and the soft, rich 
auburn hair, the envy of Lord Daventry’s bald or 
grizzled compeers. There was much beauty in 
her face, but of the stillest, quietest kind ; and it 
might have been inanimate but for the perfect 
little mouth, which, smiling often, smiled never 
unmeaningly. She was not particularly clever, 
and not a whit ambitious ; hereditary indolence 
would have prompted her to glide listlessly down 
the social stream, accepting such flowers as float- 
ed into her hands, yet not straining after such as 
grew out of her reach. But, early in her first 
season, a large mixed jury of natives and foreign- 
ers pronounced Lady Rose Marston one of the 
best valseuses in Europe. 

In these days, most demoiselles endowed with 
lithe light figures, and a fair ear for music, dance 


; — as our forefathers would have said — more or 
less “ divinely ;” so that one should be singled out 
and set above her sisters, involves some marked 
peculiarity. And Rose Marston’s waltzing icas 
very peculiar. However rapid the whirl, she 
never lost the languid grace that distinguished 
her in repose. But all the while a practiced eye, 
to say nothing of a practiced arm, could detect, 
in all her movements, a latent energy and sup- 
pressed power. Men found they could go on 
longer with Lady Rose without feeling the exer- 
tion than with any other ; as for tiring her — a 
month after she was presented, there was no 
question of such a thing. 

“ She’s always going so thoroughly within her- 
self,” Regy Avenel remarked ; “ that’s about the 
secret of it.” 

His opinion in these matters was worth hav- 
ing ; for he was the crack cotillon-leader of that 
year. 

Every man or woman who has a reputation to 
keep up, however flimsy or trivial, has a certain 
object and interest in life ; and, after all, there 
seems no reason why there should not be chore- 
graphic as well as atheletic champions. The 
girl became imbued with a kind of artistic enthu- 
siasm, and looked forward to her balls as a suc- 
cessful actress looks forward to her scenic tri- 
umphs. She was too lazy, perhaps too frank, ever 
thoroughly to flirt ; yet she would do much in 
an innocent way to win or retain an eligible part- 
ner, and was not niggardly of looks, words, or 
smiles, in rewarding her special favorites. These 
were found naturally enough in a fast though not 
a very vicious set. They were too young for the 
most part to be thoroughly depraved ; for among 
Lady Rose’s attaches, there was scarce one whose 
beard was fairly grown. 

Nevertheless, certain matrons, and maids whose 
“snoods ” had lost their gloss, looked askance as 
she passed by, whispering bitter words ; even as 
Rebecca, on the day after she cheated her first- 
born of his birthright, may have wagged her 
head, and scowled from under her brows, at 
some laughing daughter of Ileth. 
v Whatever may have been her temptations, the 
Lady Rose must have kept herself heart-whole if 
not quite fancy-free. When she first heard of 
Lord Nithsdale as a suitor, she showed no signs 
of repugnance or terror, but said placidly to her 
mother, that she liked him as well as she liked 
any one else ; and she was sure he would be 
kind to her. Speaking on the subject to the most 
intimate of her male and female friends she con- 
sistently declined to be looked on as a martyr. 
It was true that she had known the Earl from 
childhood upward ; for one of his diverse estates, 
on which he had of late resided frequently, march- 
ed with her father’s property at Daventry Court. 

Perhaps among their mutual acquaintance, 
more pity was felt for the bridegroom than for 
the bride ; though none of these amicable imper- 
tinences were expressed aloud. Despite his 
homely bearing and quiet manner, none, gentle 
or simple, dreamed of taking liberties with Hugh 
of Nithsdale; and pity, real or feigned, was utterly 
un called for. 

The Earl had no mind to cage or clip the 
wings of the beautiful bird that had perched so 
willingly on his shoulder, and knew right well he 
could trust her not to range too far. Though 
there was no verbal compact, Lady Rosa under- 


BLANCHE ELLEKSLIE’S ENDING. 9 


stood that she was free to follow her own inclina- 
tions in any reasonable way ; that she was still 
free to indulge her own taste, to plan and carry 
out her own amusement, and to gather her own 
friends round her when and where she would. 
It was a very blithe bridal ; and when the honey- 
moon had waned, the bride did not scruple to 
confess, to whom it might concern, that she was 
perfectly — I believe her own words were “awful- 
ly happy. 

In the shape of this same ball, her first matron- 
ly anxiety came upon her. The ordinary cares 
of preparation troubled her not a whit, she left all 
such things in perfect confidence to her house- 
keeper and house- steward, and to the tradesmen, 
whom she had learned to look upon as trusty 
Slaves of the Ring. Neither was she nervous ; 
though she would have to play hostess for the 
first time before a critical audience, and in pres- 
ence of royalty. She had other causes of dis- 
quietude ; and these were solemnly discussed one 
day at luncheon by a council of three, whereat 
assisted her mother and Reginald Avenel of 
choragic fame. The chiefest trouble, as may be 
imagined, was the revision of the invitation- 
cards. 

The Countess had set her delicate foot down on 
one point — that, come what would, her first ball 
should not be over-crowded — a just and pleasant 
resolve, but not so easily carried out in the face 
of a visiting-list of portentous dimensions, when 
people congregated from the uttermost parts of 
the earth for the express purpose of showing 
themselves — if they had the chance — on that 
especial night at Nithsdale House. The worst 
of it was, that friends who had made their own 
election sure declined to be content therewith, 
and persisted in pleading for others who seemed 
likely to be left in the outer darkness. Lady 
Nithsdale was at her wits’ end. She had calcu- 
lated, by the help of some cunning in such mat- 
ters, how r many her rooms would hold comforta- 
bly ; and she was on the very verge of such a 
limit now. Yet still the letters came pouring in, 
and her carriage could not halt for five minutes 
in the Mile, 'without being beset by petitioners. 
She Was too good-natured to like vexing any 
body, and too wise in her simple way to make 
needless enemies thus early in her career. Even 
whilst she sat at luncheon two notes were brought 
in, of which she guessed the import so soon as 
she glanced at the monograms. 

44 One can’t even eat a poor little plover’s egg 
in peace,” the Countess said, pouting. 44 I de- 
clare it’s a thousand times worse than Christmas 
bills !” And she tore open one of the envelopes 
quite viciously. 

Avenel looked at her with a half-smile — a lit- 
tle sad and a little envious. He had been trying 
for some time now to make a younger son’s for- 
tune square with expensive tastes, and had come 
to the conclusion that there are not many things 
worse than Christmas bills, when the patience of 
creditors waxes threadbare. 

The first note contained only one of the ordi- 
nary petitions ; for the Countess threw it careless- 
ly across to her mother, after a glance at its con- 
tents, saying, 

“Lady Blakeston wants to bring that plain 
prim niece. Quite impossible, isn’t it, mamma ? 
— What can M. de Fonteyrac want ?” she went 
on, as she opened the other ^envelope. 4 ‘ All the 


embassy, except those two who don’t dance, have 
got cards already.” 

But the second note seemed to touch the Count- 
ess more narrowly ; and, as she passed it to 
Avenel, she clasped her hands in comic despair. 

Yet there w r as nothing very alarming on the 
face of the document, couched in the courtliest 
of diplomatic styles. Therein M. de Fonteyrac, 
referring himself to the angelic goodness of 
Madame la Comtesse, prayed permission to bring 
with him to her ball his especial friend Gaspard 
de Sauterel. 

Now Lady Nithsdale, as you know', was, in a 
certain w r ay, imbued with an artistic spirit ; and 
all real artists are more nervous in exhibiting be- 
fore a single maestro than before five hundred 
cognoscenti. Gaspard, Marquis de Sauterel, was 
an European celebrity. Filling a high post at 
the Imperial Court, he held another office, quite 
as well recognized and refined, though betokened 
by no outward insignia. For the last four seasons 
he had reigned without a rival over Parisian 
cotillons. The haughtiest of the female noblesse 
altered the date of their entertainments to insure 
his presence ; and the lightest feet in France were 
only too proud to follow in his wake. 

“ O Regy, w r hat is to be done ?” the Countess 
asked half pettishly. 4 4 Something is sure to go 
wrong ; and then, can’t you fancy his going back 
to Paris, and talking compassionately about insu- 
lar ambition ?” 

Before he answ r ered, Avenel finished slowdy a 
goblet of weak claret-cup. lie w r as very temper- 
ate, both in food and drink — training so to speak, 
for his work — and from mere condition would 
have run into a place in any ordinary two mile 
handicap. Then he read the note through care- 
fully, lifting his brows : he w r as not a handsome 
man, but his eyebrows were unexceptionable, and 
he made play with them accordingly. 

“Don’t you flurry yourself, Lady Rose” (to 
the Countess of Nithsdale’s intimates her maiden 
name seemed to come always most naturally) ; 
“we’re not beat yet, and I don’t see why we 
should be either. De Sauterel isn’t running in 
his old form, so Dolly Forester says, and he 
ought to know, for there never was more than 
seven pounds between ’em. Baccarat after balls, 
and absinthe before breakfast, are beginning to 
tell. The Marquis is as quick on his legs as 
ever ; but, I hear, he can't stay.” 

What might have been a dark speech to oth- 
ers was intelligible enough to his hearer. Turf 
metaphors were scarcely likely to offend the 
ears of Lord Daventry’s daughter. Her sweet 
face cleared somewhat, though doubt still lingered 
there. 

4 4 Besides,” Avenel went on placidly, 44 it’s very 
easy to make things quite safe. Why don’t you 
let De Sauterel lead in his own fashion? He 
can’t find fault then. Don’t mind me ; I’ll abdi- 
cate with pleasure. I’ve always said my life is 
one long self-sacrifice.” 

Rose Marston by many of her acquaintances 
was called capricious and fickle — and not with- 
out reason. Her preferences were often wonder- 
fully shortlived, and the first favorite of one night 
would become the extremest outsider the next. 
Indeed, sometimes after supper her card became 
so terribly involved that she was forced, so to 
speak, to take the benefit of the Act, and start 
afresh ; paying her creditors nothing whatever in 


10 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


the pound. But in her real friendships she was 
stanch as steel. She had known Reginald Avenel 
long before she came out, and had always looked 
upon him as one of the family — their ancestors 
had been related in some very remote age : it was 
strange but perfectly true, that their cousinly fa- 
miliarity had never ripened into the cousinly 
flirtation which is almost de rigueur. 

“ Don’t be so utterly absurd, Regy,” she said, 
with a flush on her cheek and a flash in her lazy 
brown eyes. “ Throwing one’s old friends over 
for people one has never seen, isn’t the way to 
bring luck about the house. If you say two 
words more, I shall think you want to change me 
for the Firefly ; I always thought her step suited 
you best.” 

He held up his hand in deprecation. 

“ L' Empire, cest la Paix , Lady Rose. So 
said a greater than De Sauterel. Always re- 
member that, before you begin to quarrel. If 
your Majesty won't accept our resignation, it’s 
easily withdrawn. We’ll pull through somehow, 
never fear. Only don’t fret any more about these 
things. You’re beginning to look quite fagged 
already. ” 

Lady Daventry was in no sort of way a model 
of matronhood ; but she was foolishly fond of her 
children, and specially of this, her eldest-born 
daughter. She was a better listener than talker, 
and up to this time had taken little part in fami- 
ly-council ; but she got up now and wound her arm 
around her daughter’s neck caressingly. 

“Regy is quite right, darling,” she said ; “you 
mustn’t fret, and there’s no earthly reason for it. 
I saw a good deal of M. de Sauterel last year in 
Paris. There’s not a more good-natured little 
creature alive ; and, if he were given to fault find- 
ing, he would scarcely practice it here.” Lady 
Daventry’s smile was full of memorial meaning. 
“I’ll take care that every body knows to-day 
that your list is full ; so you shall be bored with 
no more begging-letters. That’s settled.” 

Then the conclave broke up. 

Is it likely that, in this hard workday world, 
many should be found who could throw them- 
selves seriously into a discussion frivolous as that 
set down here ? Truly, I know*, not. The states- 
men’s plans probably were no less deep, the 
swords of soldiers no less sharp, the quibbles of 
lawyers no less astute, the song of poets no less 
musical, the lash of critics no less sharp, in Liliput 
than in Brobdingnag. Insects, as well as car- 
nivora, are integral parts of creation ; and Ephe- 
meris, setting things in order for her bloodless 
banquet, has cares just as real, though less trucu- 
lent than those of Megatherium, who shakes the 
forest-land with his roaring as he seeks his meat 
from God. 

o 

CHAPTER II. 

So Lady Nithsdale’s ball was a success — teres 
atque rotundas — without a single flaw. The Dieu 
de la Danse was thoroughly propitious, sanction- 
ing every thing and every body with the benignest 
of smiles, and before daybreak became the merest 
mortal in his readiness to lay down his divinity at 
a mortal’s feet. Indeed, when Gaspard de Sau- 
terel returned to his own place he created great 
scandal and discontent among the faithful beyond 
the seas by what they were pleased to call his 


Anglo-mania. It was months before he ceased 
to rave about Lady Nithsdale’s waltzing, which 
he was wont to characterize as “ a poesy.” 

But no triumph can last forever, so Lady Niths- 
dale’s ball was over at last. Carriage after car- 
riage drove away with its cloaked and hooded 
freight ; while the men for the most part strolled 
off by twos and threes through the fresh spring 
morning. But only one brougham we need fol- 
low. In it sat two women, both fair to look upon 
though neither was in her very first youth, and 
their beauty, such as it was, differed essentially 
in style. 

The first thing which you would probably have 
remarked was, how wonderfully both faces stood 
that trying after-dawn light, under which few 
damsels, even in their first season, willingly linger. 
It only seemed to soften becomingly the exceed- 
ing brilliancy of Laura Brancepeth’s coloring ; 
and it did not bring out a line or deepen a shadow 
on Blanche Ellerslie’s cheeks — soft, smooth, and 
white as the leaves of a tropical lily. 

On neither countenance was there trace of 
weariness ; and they were not too sleepy, it seem- 
ed, for a little quiet talk, opened by Lady Laura 
Brancepeth — better known in her own set as “La 
Reine Gaillarde.” 

“Thoroughly well done, wasn’t it, Blanche? 
The rooms just full enough to look their best, 
and not a particle of heat or crowd. Anne Dav- 
entry has a specialty for these things, when she 
will only give herself the trouble. Those leaf- 
screens round the fountains in the conservatory 
were the prettiest things I ever saw ; and you 
admired them even more than I apparently, for 
you spent about half the night there. By the by^ 
that reminds me — I should just like to know 
where you were all the cotillon ? I missed you 
after the first figure ?” 

“I was tired,” Mrs. Ellerslie answered. “I 
should certainly have got one of my headaches if 
I had gone on ; you know what my headaches 
are? The fact is, I am going down fast into the 
vale of years ; after this season I don’t mean to 
waltz any more.” 

Few and faint were the signs of age on the 
delicate face just then, and so Laura Brancepeth 
thought as she gazed at her companion, with a 
mischievous flash in her broad black e} T es. 

“Yes ; I know what your headaches are, and 
how they come and go, and how easily tired you 
are sometimes. As for that excuse about your 
age, I consider it positively rude. I'm two years 
older than you are, but I’ve no idea of wall-flow- 
ering just yet. You wicked little comedienne ! I 
never saw you act better than you did to-night ; 
you know very well you only slipped away, to 
take another long lesson in botany from Mark 
Ramsay. Why, Blanche — is it possible? I can’t 
believe it ; you’re actually blushing !” 

If an aurora borealis had blazed forth sudden- 
ly in the clear gray sky above them, Lady Laura 
could not have spoken with more astonishment. 
She was in truth looking on a natural phenomenon. 
The practiced coquette was no more likely to be- 
tray signs of discomfiture at the mention of any 
ordinary name than a charger is likety to start at 
a pistol-shot. Yet there was no mistake about 
the tell-tale flush — rather deepening than fading 
under the other’s searching gaze. 

“O Blanche! Was it not acting then, afi,er 
all ?” Lady Laura went on, in quite a changed 


BLANCHE ELLEKSLIE’S ENDING. 


II 


tone ; and the mockery died out of her eyes. 
“ You can’t mean that you have been in earnest 
to-night. The worst of your flirtations would be 
better than such fearful folly.” 

Mrs. Ellerslie’s look of injured innocence was 
scarcely so successful as usual. 

“You’re too tyrannical, Queenie,” she said 
plaintively ; “ there’s no possibility of contenting 
you. Well, allowing that you are right in your 
suspicion — which I don’t — is it not better to be 
foolish once in a way, than wicked always ?” 

But the other was not to be put off with a 
jest. 

“ I am quite serious,” she said. “ You and I 
are very old friends, fast friends too ; though 
you’d provoke a saint sometimes, and I ow r n I’m 
rather apt to bully you. Though I often tease 
you about men, I never really pity them much. 
But I should pity you awfully if you came to 
grief; and I’d sooner hear of your breaking half 
a dozen honest hearts, than giving the least bit 
of yours to Mark Ramsay.” 

“ What fresh story have you heard against 
him ?” 

The low voice was quite steady ; but the down 
trimming fluttered, though there wuis no breeze 
to stir it. 

“Are not the old ones enough?” the other 
answered gravely. “If I had never heard a 
single word against him, I should take warning 
from his face — wonderfully handsome, I allow, 
and gentle too, when he chooses to let it soften. 
But when it is in repose, I think it the cruellest 
face I ever looked upon. It would be rather nice 
to be lorded over by some people I know ; but I 
don’t like to think of any woman as that man’s 
slave. And slave she would be ; depend upon it, 
there would be no half-measures there.” 

Blanche laughed, quite naturally now. 

“ What a vampire you have made of poor Mr. 
Ramsay! If you knew him better, perhaps you 
wouldn’t think him so fatal in any way. It’s rath- 
er refreshing to talk to him, after the platitudes 
one has to listen to as a rule ; though he neither 
talks politics nor scandal, and doesn’t seem to 
consider flirting a matter of absolute duty. But 
— so far — Queenie, he has done me no harm. ” 

Neither capitals nor italics, nor any other de- 
vice of type, could do justice to Blanche Ellerslie’s 
“ me.” 23u, issuing from the tenderest lips that 
have murmured love-whispers in Rhine-land, 
never sounded half so cosy and caressing. Very 
few men heard it for the first time, without feel- 
ing a new sympathy awaking within them, and 
a kind of prescience that some confidence was 
coming. 

Lady Laura’s wiry night-slaves scuffled over the 
ground quicker than the best pair of steppers in 
town ; and they were so nearly at home now that 
she had only time to say : 

“I’m too sleepy to go on preaching; only, 
Blanche, do pray take care.” 

So the two women embraced, and parted for the 
night. 

With a sinful indifference to beauty-sleep, Mrs. 
Ellerslie sat musing long after her maid had left 
her. Self-examination was not much in her line ; 
but in the solitude of her own chamber she did 
not affirm to herself quite so confidently as she 
had done to Laura Brancepeth, that “no harm 
has been done to me.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Now what manner of man was he, whose name 
had made Blanche Ellerslie flush and flutter like 
a girl, and the reckless Reine Gaillard earnest in 
warning ? 

Not a wonder in any way. Yet one who would 
certainly have achieved some notable success in 
life, if he had turned to any account his gifts and 
chances. 

Mark Ramsay came of an ancient Scotch house 
that had once been very powerful in the Lowlands, 
but whose fortunes had ebbed steadily for centu- 
ries, and rapidly at last, till the present genera- 
tion was well-nigh stranded. Instead of having 
a voice in the councils of the realm, Ramsay of 
Kilmains could scarce get hearing at petty ses- 
sions ; out of demesnes vast and fertile, there 
were left now only a few hundred acres of poor 
hungry land round a hideous red-brick barrack, 
tacked on to a gaunt gray peel-tower ; and of all 
the wealth amassed by wrong and rapine, there 
was not enough left to keep a creditable balance 
at the county bank. 

The family met with singularly little sympathy 
in their downward career. From time immemo- 
rial these Ramsays had been hard, despotic ty- 
rants, apt to oppress the poor and needy, wheth- 
er vassals or neighbors, and only lavish of their 
gold when it was a question of selfish vice. The 
present Laird of Kilmains, Mark’s father, was 
quite as unpopular as any of his ancestors, though 
he had been guilty of none of the excesses for 
which they had been evilly renowned ; being in- 
deed exceeding miserly in his habits, and in re- 
ligion a gloomy fanatic. Though lie looked so 
keenly and carefully after the pence, the pounds, 
somehow, took to themselves wings, and flitted 
one by one out of his covetous fingers. He had 
an unhappy turn for small speculations, and each 
of these seemed fated to prove more or less un- 
profitable ; so that, after pinching and saving for 
a score of years, he found himself rather poorer 
than when he came into his heritage. Ill-luck 
may have done much to embitter a temper natu- 
rally morose and sullen ; but certainly among all 
his forbears there was not found a more thorough 
tyrant, though his tyranny, perforce, was on a 
petty scale. A hard master, a merciless land- 
lord, an austere father, and a brutal husband — 
though of actual violence he was never guilty — 
he seldom lost a chance of vexing any living thing 
that could safely be oppressed. 

Two children were the issue of a most unhappy 
marriage ; and Marcia Ramsay went to her rest 
— gladly enough, no doubt — within a month after 
Mark’s birth. 

The heir of Kilmains, both outwardly and in- 
wardly, very much resembled his father ; perhaps 
for this reason the two got on well enough to- 
gether in a sort of way. From his boyhood up- 
ward, Gilbert Ramsay had always yielded to dic- 
tation, however unreasonable, a stolid acquies- 
cence with' which it was next to impossible to 
quarrel ; and when he grew up to manhood, from 
mere force of habit he continued docile, with oc- 
casional fits of the sullens, that never opened into 
ripe revolt. All this the elder man accepted un- 
graciously, as his mere due ; yet it is certain that 
he liked his first-born better than he liked any 
other creature. 

With Mark it was very different. To say 


12 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


that “there was no love lost” betwixt the two 
does not at all express it. There was positive 
antipathy. Kilmains hated his second son almost 
from his birth ; he hated him for the haughty 
beauty that always reminded him of the woman 
whose spirit he never could cow though he broke 
her heart, and who died long before she was 
tamed. Mark’s mouth and eyes were the coun- 
terparts of his mother’s ; and James Ramsay’s 
violence of word or deed was soon met over again 
by the same disdainful smile and glance of cool 
defiance that had often galled him in the old 
days. He would never own it to himself, but it 
was quite true that he never felt thoroughly easy 
in the boy’s presence. He hated him for this ; 
he hated him worst of all because, before Mark 
was ten years old, he was made virtually inde- 
pendent of his father. 

When Duncan Cameron came back with a fair 
fortune from the East, where all his youth and 
manhood were passed, almost his first visit was 
to his favorite sister’s grave. He had heard 
enough of the manner of her life and death to 
keep him from ever setting foot under her hus- 
band’s roof ; and when he made his will in favor 
of her child, he took special care that not a doit 
should be handled by the Laird of Kilmains, much 
less pass into his clutches. 

The guardians of the child were 'well chosen — 
two shrewd, sturdy, sensible business men ; ready 
to do their duty -without fear or favor, and as 
little likely to be bullied as beguiled. If Duncan 
Cameron had designed to work out a posthumous 
revenge on him who had made his sister’s life 
miserable, he could scarcely have devised a more 
ingenious plan. From the day that he heard the 
will read, to that on which Mark attained his 
majority, James Ramsay lived in perpetual fret 
and discontent. The property was not so Aery 
large — a little over a thousand a year, all told. ; 
but the sum allowed yearly for the boy’s nurture 
and education would more than have discharged 
all the household expenses at Kilmains. Of this, • 
beyond a meagre alloAvance for actual mainte- 
nance while Mark lived at home, the father 
could touch no part ; for education the guardians 
provided as it seemed to them good. 

When it Avas decided to send Mark to Eton, 
Ramsay did make some sIioav of resistance, and 
threAV every possible impediment in the Avay ; but 
there loomed in the distance the terrors of the 
High Court of Chancery ; and, though he had 
neA'er read Sophocles, he knew Avell enough Avliat 
usually befalls those avIio 

“Hurl themselves violently against the footstool of Jus- 
tice.” 

So he Avas bound to savuIIoav the bitter pill, and 
wreak his ill-humor on such as were compelled 
to endure it. 

Mark’s school - days passed very pleasantly, 
lie Avas a great favorite Avith his masters and his 
mates. He did not sIioav much energy, either at 
Avork or play, but got through a sufficient amount 
of both creditably enough. The A'acations spent 
at Kilmains Avere terribly dreary. James Ram- 
say neA'er lifted his hand against his son — per- 
haps he feared Avhither one act of violence might 
lead him — but he did not seek to dissemble his 
dislike. Though the boy Avas Avonderfully intrepid 
by nature, and had unhappily groAvn quite care- 
less of such things as domestic affections, he 


| could scarcely help starting sometimes as, look- 
ing up suddenly, he met those hard, haggard eyes. 
His brother Avas no sort of companion for him, 
for they had not a single taste in common ; so it 
was no marvel if Black Monday Avas a day to be 
scored with the whitest of chalk in Mark’s cal- 
endar. 

When he went to Oxford he became practical- 
ly his OAvn master ; and his first act of independ- 
ence Avas a refusal to spend any part of his first 
Attention at Kilmains. From that day forth, he 
Avas no more under his father’s roof-tree ; and no 
communication by Avord or mouth passed betAvixt 
the tAvo. 

Thus no foundling Avas ever more absolutely 
free of all home-ties than Mark Ramsay. Hoav 
fraught with danger is such isolation, all men 
know — many to their cost. Some hearts there 
are of such rare material that, under such prov- 
ing, they grotv strong and self-reliant, but never 
hard. Mark Avas none of these. His selfishness 
such as it Avas, lay not on the surface, but deep in 
grain. He did not object to beneA'olence on prin- 
ciple, and Avonld do a good-natured action readily 
enough, if it led him not too far out of his Avay ; 
but would help a mere acquaintance just as read- 
ily as an ancient comrade, expecting no gratitude 
in return. If he had confessed his real senti- 
ments, he Avould probably have told you that 
friendship Avas a thing as much out of date as 
brotherhood-in-arms. He A\ r as liberal and hos- 
pitable to the outside limit of his means — that his 
Avorst enemies alloAved — but Avas neither reckless 
nor prodigal. He Avas fond of playing his .-part 
in the battle of life ; and had no mind to be in- 
A'alided, for lack of the sineAvs of war. 

So he never got into any serious money-scrape 
on his OAvn account. As for involving himself 
for another, — the man Avas yet to be found con- 
fident enough in his oayii persuasive poAvers to ask 
Mark Ramsay for the use of his name. NeA er- 
theless, he Avas quite as popular at Oxford as he 
had been at Eton : not a general faA'orite, simply 
because he did not care to mix much in general 
society ; but the men of his set stvore by him. 
His personal advantages may have had much to 
do Avith this. You may sermonize till you are 
Aveary about these things being but skin-deep, and 
the rest of it ; but you never will preA r ent them 
being a passport to the faA'or of men, to say noth- 
ing of Avomen-kind. The credentials may be false, 
or forged, of course : till their falsity is proved, 
they stand. 

Mark’s beauty AA-as of a very rare type — slight- 
ly effeminate, perhaps, but none the less attractive 
for that. An old Venetian painter Avould have 
revelled in the rich, soft coloring of his hair, eyes, 
and lips, each the darkest of their several shades 
of chestnut, blue, and crimson ; and all harmoniz- 
ing, instead of contrasting, Avith cheeks of clear, 
pale oliA'e. Ilis frame Avas Avell knit and put to- 
gether, though on rather a slender scale. And it 
Avas a good lasting figure ; for at five-and-thirty 
neither gauntness nor coarseness marred its out- 
line. His manner, too, Avas A'ery Avinning — more 
perhaps at first than after long acquaintance ; for 
sometimes its exceeding quietude almost irritated 
you. But of his A'oice, Avith its subtle variations 
of semi-tones, you never greAV Aveary. 

Any one thus endoAved, unless exceptionall3 r 
weak in intellect, or strong in principle, or fur- 
nished Avith a special safeguard, is scarce likely to 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


13 


each manhood without working some great harm 
o himself, if not to others. The safeguard I 
mean, is the having won the love of a true, beau- 
tiful woman ; and the being able to hold fast that 
most precious pearl— never hankering after other 
men’s jewels. 

Now Mark Ramsay was neither very simple 
nor very seraphic. Of boyish romance he never 
was guilty ; indeed, before he left Eton he could 
theorize with dangerous glibness on certain sub- 
jects, and was an advanced Fourierist in matters 
feminine. Guilty passion or lawless caprice, 
when they have once fairly laid hold on a man, 
will leave their traces behind, however thoroughly 
they may seem to be shaken off, like any other 
malaria. Years after the patient has been pro- 
nounced perfectly whole, there will come back, 
without rhyme or reason, the hot thrills and the 
cold shivers. Nevertheless, there are degrees in 
maladies, and Mark Ramsay had curiously ill- 
luck in his first fever-fit. 

Frederic, Graf von Adlersberg, was a very fa- 
mous diplomatist. The truces he obtained, and 
the treaties he cemented, when war, or discord at 
the least, seemed inevitable, are written down in 
history. Ermengild, his wife, was almost better 
known for the domestic contracts she had severed, 
and the family revolutions she had caused. There 
was scarcely a capital boasting an embassy on 
which she had not made her mark. In six Euro- 
pean tongues at least anathemas or complaints 
might have been heard at the mention of her 
name ; and matrons, mothers, and maids would 
have joined in the chorus. She had served her 
Master more earnestly and successfully than ever 
her husband serves his earthly sovereign. But 
she never wrought a more thorough piece of the 
Devil’s work than when she “formed” Mark 
Ramsay. 

There are crimes that no law-giver, from him 
of Horeb downward, has ever set down in his 
calendar ; crimes, concerning which the acutest 
legalist could never draw an indictment. Yet to 
expiate lesser offenses, men — ay, and women to 
boot — have come forth through a low dark door 
into the cold gray morning, and stood under a 
black beam waiting for their shameful death, 
while ten thousand of their fellow-creatures look- 
ed on unpityingly. Many who are guilty of such 
deeds sit in the foremost places of our synagogues, 
and the foremost rooms at our feasts, bearing 
themselves debonnaireiy or austerely after their 
fashion ; either smiling with calm superiority at 
their neighbor’s misdeeds and failings, or casting, 
with unerring aim, sharp stones at whoso shall 
have broken the least commandment in the Dec- 
alogue. Yet, I think, for these things there will 
come a reckoning, when the penalty shall be paid 
to the uttermost pang. 

The Countess von Adlersberg was none of these 
smooth - faced hypocrites. She sinned with a 
high hand, and would no more have dreamt of 
draping herself in social virtue than of going to a 
masquerade as a whimpled nun. More than 
once blood had been shed, when she might have 
averted .the calamity by a word or a sign : but she 
sat still, while it went on to the bitter end, with 
no more ruth than Faustina may have felt, at the 
Circus, when she gave the death-sign with her 
little white thumb. 

Yet Ermengild was never more thoroughly a 
murderess in intent than when she dropped poison 


at the root of every frank, fresh, and generous 
impulse in Mark Ramsay’s heart, watching them 
wither day by day, till only a diy waste was left 
on which flowers could never grow again. 

It was at Baden those two met, in the summer 
of Mark’s second year at Oxford. Myriads of 
handsome faces had passed under the review of 
the Countess’s critical eyes ; but never one quite 
like Ramsay’s. Almost at the first glance she 
determined on his conquest, very much as some 
wealthy bey may determine on the purchase of 
some new importation into the slave-market, and 
with no more doubt as to the result. There was 
no sort of difficulty in bringing him within her 
reach ; for Count von Adlersberg then, and for 
some time after, was engaged in London on im- 
portant diplomatic business, and Ermengild had 
a large English acquaintance. How quickly, 
rapidly, and completely Mark was subjugated 
need not be told ; all the more rapidly, perhaps, 
for those theories aforesaid which had given him 
a hollow sense of security, and made him a sort 
of oracle among his fellows. Every one knows 
the trite old proverb about “a little learning.” 
It is never more true than when applied to a 
moral or physical duel : the straightforward sim- 
plicity of utter ignorance has puzzled science ere 
now ; but it is next to a miracle if one who flat- 
ters himself he has some cunning in fence escapes 
without a dangerous wound. All through that 
autumn and winter and the ensuing spring Mark 
Ramsay abode under the spell. The sorceress 
marvelled sometimes at her own constancy in 
caprice ; but this one, though it endured longer 
than most others, came at last to a rather abrupt 
close. Then — with little preamble or excuse — 
she cast open the gates of her prison-house, and 
told her thrall that he was free. 

Such a freedom as it was! Freedom from 
faith ; freedom from such old-world prejudices as 
reverence for woman’s truth, or respect for her 
honor; freedom from all natural compunctions 
that cause a man to ponder for a while, if not to 
hold his hand, when on the point of working bit- 
ter wrong, which may never be amended, on in- 
nocents or weaklings ; freedom from ruth or re- 
morse. And, in place of these things, only a 
vague desire to requite on the many the harm 
wrought by the one, and a dogged determination 
to make his own pleasure the Lesbian rule of his 
life thenceforward. 

In such a frame of mind Mark Ramsay went 
on his way through the world when he was not 
twenty-one ; and a terrible parody of a nobis 
maxim was his motto even to the end : 

“ Fais ce que voudra?, 

Advienne que pourra.” 

It would be unfair to impute all this to the in- 
fluence — fatal as it undoubtedly was — which over- 
shadowed him so early. Mark was born with a 
sufficient portion of the stubborn hardness which, 
for centuries past, if Fame spoke true, had run in 
the Ramsay blood. This had been fostered, 
doubtless, by his home-training, wherein natural 
affection was replaced by antagonism. If the 
Countess Ermengild had never crossed his path, 
it is not likely he would ever have turned out 
gentle or good, or even wise in his generation. 
Many there are — very fortunately for the well-be- 
ing of this world of ours — who, had their first il- 
lusion been destroyed yet more rudely, would 
have remembered that there was much work left 


14 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


• for them to do, and many prizes of all sorts worth 
the winning ; and have braced themselves to the 
honest, healthy pursuit of these, instead of falling 
back long before their prime on the cynicism 
which ought to be the last resource of disappointed 
old age. But Mark Ramsay — having said in his 
first haste, “ all women are liars ” — acted on the 
aphorism in bitter earnest. 

For many years he led an odd wandering sort 
of life; spending much more of his time abroad 
than in England, and having nowhere a fixed 
abiding- place. He cultivated art in a desultory 
dilettante fashion, and his pursuits were rather of 
a quiet than an athletic order; though he was 
famous both with pistol and rifle, and had done 
some notable work with the big game in divers 
countries. The only restless element in all his 
nature was evinced in fondness for travelling. 
There were few nooks and corners, indeed, of the 
civilized world that were strange to him ; and 
fewer still, where he had tarried beyond a brief sea- 
son, whence some tale might not have been gath- 
ered redounding little to his credit. Wherever he 
went he made the same pitiless, unscrupulous use 
of his fair face and lissom tongue. With women, 
unfortunately, forewarned is not forearmed ; and 
thus far his evil repute seemed never to have se- 
riously hindered the accomplishment of his de- 
sires. lie was not a whit more reckless of the 
consequences to others than of the consequences 
to himself ; but he had come out of the most se- 
rious scrapes scatheless — though not always un- 
scathing— with the strange impunity that seems 
to attach only to those who will play for their 
lives as readily as for any other stake. 

Ramsay never paraded his conquests or boast- 
ed of them in after-days. He would speak light- 
ly enough of womankind, but never disparaging- 
ly of any singly woman. Indeed, he would show 
a distaste for such converse plainly enough at 
times. Few who sought to betray him into con- 
fession or confidence tried the experiment twice. 
This spark of chivalry, and a certain generosity 
at play — he was a bold and successful gambler — 
were the two bright spots relieving the darkness 
of Mark Ramsay’s nature at thirty -five. 

With all this, his evil reputation spread itself 
far and wide ; the more so, perhaps, because there 
never had been imputed to him a single venial or 
vulgar intrigue. He confined his depredations 
exclusively to his own class ; somewhat on the 
principle of those masterful thieves of ancient 
days, who, plundering priest, noble, and franklin 
without mercy, let peasant and pauper go scot- 
free. The demi-monde of foreign capitals knew 
him only by name ; or, at the most by meeting 
him occasionally at entertainments where their 
presence was only an accessory to*high play ; and 
not one of the “soiled doves,” who flutter from 
tree to tree in the Forest of St. John, or build 
their nests in Brompton groves, had ever suc- 
ceeded in perching, were it for an instant, on his 
shoulder. 

Ermengild von Aldersberg had fallen back on 
feminine diplomacy when the cunning of cos- 
metics could no longer dissemble the retribution 
of Time the Avenger. Half the domestic plots 
that amused or scandalized Paris were hatched 
in her boudoir. Though those two met but sel- 
dom of late years, no cancans interested her so 
much as those concerning Mark Ramsay. She 
(seemed, while she listened, to glow with a quiet 


satisfaction, and a kind of reflected triumph ; like 
a venerable college tutor hearing of parliamentary 
successes achieved by some favorite pupil. 

Two years before the opening of this tale, 
Mark’s position had been entirely changed by a 
singular freak of fortune. During a winter spent 
in Paris, community of tastes, and, to a certain 
extent, of pursuits, brought him much into the 
company of a certain Sir Robert Kenlis. There 
was some sort of cousinship betwixt the two ; but 
so entirely remote, that even a Scotch genealogist 
would have been puzzled fairly to unite the ped- 
igree. Such as it was, it was enough to warrant 
the old baronet in gratifying a fancy and a dis- 
like. The fancy was for his new acquaintance; 
the dislike was for each and every one of the rel- 
atives he had ever known. So one day, about a 
week after Sir Robert Kenlis’s sudden death there 
was intense heartburning in the large circle of 
expectants, and some wonderment in the world at 
large, at the announcement that Mark Ramsay 
had been left the dead man’s sole heir. 

It was a very goodly heritage, comprising some 
£8000 a year in improvable estates ; and money 
enough in the F unds to buy another fair property ; 
to say nothing of jewels and pictures, statues and 
furniture, stored away in half the capitals of 
Europe, enough to stock a vaster mansion than 
Kenlis Castle. 

Ramsay was in no wise outwardly exalted by 
his great good luck, and seemed not in the least 
aware that from a comparative cipher in the 
world he had become an important unit, in whose 
well or ill faring the matronly part at least of po- 
lite society took an interest sudden and sincere. 
Most of his time was now necessarily spent in 
England ; otherwise there was little change in his 
habits, except that he indulged his taste in horse- 
flesh to the uttermost, and entertained in London 
oftener and on a larger scale than had been his 
wont. Beyond a bachelor-party in the grouse- 
season, he had made no attempt to keep house at 
Kenlis Castle. 

Such was Mark Ramsay at the opening of this 
our tale. Thus early in it I take leave to observe 
that he differs as widely from my private and 
personal idea of a hero, even of melodrama, as 
two created or imagined things can differ. He 
is simply the chief actor in a company more or 
less indifferent ; and such as he will, unluckily, 
often thrust themselves into such rules whether it 
like the manager or not. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Where are you off to, Ramsay? You’ll 
come and have a quiet smoke and take a modest 
drink somewhere, surely ? Platt’s will be full in 
about ten minutes ; and the big rubber at the 
Partington is in full swing just now ; and — and 
there’s lots of things to do before heading home- 
ward.” 

The speaker was a big, brawny man, with a 
perfect aureole of light-red hair round a hale, 
weather-beaten face, that would have looked more 
at homo on a purple moor-land, or at the “ down- 
wind ” side of a gorse-cover, or under the steep 
bank of a salmon-river, or on the slippery deck 
of a cutter “ going free,” than amongst the deli- 
cate ferns and rare exotics lining the vestibule of 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’8 ENDING. 


15 


Nithsdale House. Indeed, it was a miracle liow 
Dick Calverly always contrived to look so fresh ; 
considering that he was ready for “ a quiet smoke 
and a modest drink ” at any hour in the twenty- 
four, and had a perfect antipathy to taking his 
nightly rest at regular hours if he could find the 
most shadowy excuse for keeping vigil. 

“ That’s the pull of Norway,” he was wont to 
say. “You never need go to bed at all there, 
unless you like. Somebody’s up all night long.” 

I believe his only objection to the English cli- 
mate was that it could boast no midnight sun. 
People said he burned the candle at both ends ; 
if so, it was a very tough taper, and seemed like- 
ly to outlast many that were consumed by miser’s 
rule. He rather prided himself on his powers of 
seducing men into sitting up to unearthly hours ; 
but on this occasion his simple eloquence foiled. 
Ramsay shook his head as they went down the 
steps together. 

“ Your ideas of a quiet smoke are rather dif- 
ferent from mine, Dick. If I had lungs like 
forge- bellows, or like yours, perhaps I shouldn’t 
mind doing it in an atmosphere that you might 
cut with a hand-saw; but I haven’t, you see, 
more’s the pity ; and my drinks already have 
reached the outside verge of modesty. We have 
done quite enough for our country to-night, I 
think ; why shouldn’t we try what a little sleep 
will do for our noble selves ?” 

Calverly laughed a jolly laugh in his huge rud- 
dy beard. 

“ You’re a pretty specimen of a patriot, Mark, 
you are ! Gad ! I shouldn’t mind taking my 
turn at some of the duty-work you went through 
to-night. You didn’t fag over it, it struck me. 
I don’t wonder you’re in such a hurry to get to 
bed : I suppose you’re pretty safe to dream of the 
White Widow.” 

“I never dream,” said the other, as they 
parted. 

A short walk brought Ramsay home. He oc- 
cupied the first floor of one of those pleasant 
houses that are to be found in certain quiet nooks 
of Mayfair, that, lying close to the stream of 
traffic, are never troubled by its rattle. The 
rooms were very large and lofty, and the rich 
furniture, though luxuriant to a degree, was sub- 
dued in tone. They had been bachelor’s cham- 
bers from time immemorial, since the days of the 
Millamants and Wildairs ; and no tenant had yet 
been tempted to mar the effect of the carved cor- 
nices and panels by any new-fangled devices of 
modern upholstery. 

“ I never dream.” 

It was a bitter truth. Neither waking nor 
sleeping did idle visions trouble Mark Ramsay. 
The deep - blue eyes, that seemed made for 
dreaming, rarely looked far into futurity — more 
rarely still, into the past — but always straight 
and keenly at the goal set before them ; never 
slackening in their gaze, or turning aside, till the 
race was fairly lost or won. 

Despite the virtuous resolves he had express- 
ed so lately, Ramsay seemed in no great haste to 
betake himself to rest, but sat down by his fire — 
which was still burning, for the spring mornings 
were chill — and began to build .up the coals in 
he slow mechanical fashion of one whose thoughts 
are busy elsewhere. At length he rose, frown- 
ing a little, and muttered half- aloud these two 
words ; 


“I will.” 

Now, when Mark Ramsay said “I will,” wheth- 
er with a smile or a frown on his face, it meant a 
good deal. This is what it meant now. 

Utterly vicious, cruel, and false — for he was 
not more pitiless in pursuit than in abandonment 
— he Avas not one of those tinselled LoA'elaces 
Avho, on the strength of some feAV conquests, 
more or less easily achieved, are always dinning 
into your ears their noisy ptean : 

u She is a woman, therefore to be won.” 

MarkAvas too good an engineer to conclude, sim- 
ply because he had assisted at several, victories 
by siege, sap, or storm, that no fortress Avas im- 
pregnable. Nay more, he had learned to esti- 
mate very justly the precise strength, natural or 
artificial, of the place beleaguered. He had not 
knoAvn Blanche Ellerslie — intimately at least — 
A r ery long ; but he had known her long enough to 
be assumed that there Avas but one Avay to Avin 
her. The austerest devotee in all Belgravia Avas 
not less likely to be beguiled into criminal folly 
than the dainty little coquette, Avho only rebuked 
audacity Avith a deprecating smile. 

Now Mark Ramsay — not only from the man- 
ner of his life, but from the bent of his inclina- 
tion — had hitherto been exceeding averse to Aved- 
lock. It had neA'er entered into his head to di - 
vide the competence which barely sufficed his oavii 
needs with a Avoman no richer than himself. Lik- 
ing luxury Avell, he liked liberty better, and pre- 
ferred a dinner of potherbs to such banquets as 
purseproud or Avealthy heiresses purvey. That 
he Avas not often called upon to exercise self-de- 
nial you may Avell imagine. The fish must be 
hungry indeed that will rise at such baits as an 
evil reputation and a shalloAv purse; and more 
than one of the Avomen Avho had sacrificed duty 
and honor and happiness for Mark Ramsay 
Avould have shrunk from finding him a wife 
amongst their oavii kith and kin. 

The case Avas Avidely different noAv. Even Ar- 
line probably slept infinitely sounder, after the 
first strangeness of novelty Avas passed, under the 
fretted roof of Arnheim than ever she did under 
gipsy tent or cold twinkling stars ; and Mark Avas 
never a thorough Bohemian. He was quite 
ready to admit that Avealth, no less than nobility, 
obliges ; and Avas quite ready to act up to his neAv 
duties, at least in outAvard seeming. IvnoAving 
that a chatelaine Avas sorely needed at Kenlis Cas- 
tle, he had resoEed within himself that the void 
should ere long be filled. But this was not to be 
hastily or rashly done. 

Despite his antecedents, of choice there Avas 
noAV no lack. Matrons, hoAveA'er extreme to mark 
Avhat is done amiss by paupers or detrimentals, 
are not prone to disbelieve in the penitence of 
Dives ; and the sternest guardian of our sheep- 
cotes Avill open the Avicket readily enough to the 
Avandering wether that carries fleece of gold. 
Also there are damsels always to be found, cour- 
ageous and charitable enough to devote themselves 
so thoroughly to the good Avork of guiding the 
reclaimed sinner aright, as to be Avilling to Avalk 
on with him thencefonvard through life hand-in- 
hand. 

But over the ranks of the maiden battalion Mark 
Ramsay’s eyes roved, admiringly perhaps, never 
longingly. He Avas not troubled either Avith scru- 
ples or remorse; but he Avould no more have 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


1G 

thought of asking a young innocent girl to cast 
in her lot with him for better and for worse, than 
he would have sat down to play piquet with a 
boy who could not count the points of the game. 
Neither did the taming of a lioncelle tempt him 
a whit. He had seen such ventures turn out hap- 
pily enough ; indeed, there was fair promise of a 
like event in that very house from which he had 
just come ; but he did not believe for an instant 
that such cases were parallel with his own. In- 
surance-tables are not infallible ; neither are years 
always to be reckoned by their mere number. 
Men like Hugh of Nithsdale, who have led from 
youth upward an honest, healthy life, taking duty 
and pleasure in their fair turn, have in them the 
moral, if not physical, vitality — very often both — 
of a dozen Mark Ramsays. 

Though he was wonderfully self reliant and 
confident in his own resources, there was very 
little trivial vanity about this man. He had held 
his own — only too successfully thus far-^against 
all comers ; but he knew this could not last for- 
ever. Another victory or two, perhaps, and then 
he would be fain to stand aside amongst the 
veterans, and watch the feats of younger cham- 
pions, with the mild satisfaction of criticism or 
comparison; for “age will be served.” Years 
and years ago he had seen in Paris a sparkling 
little comedy wherein a choice specimen of the 
ancien regime Avas made to enter the lists with 
divers aspirants to his young Avife's favor, and 
vanquish each and every one with tact, tongue, 
or SAvord. lie remembered thinking at the time 
Iioav much pains and ingenuity had been spent 
for small purpose — Iioav unlikely it Avas that the 
gallant old Marquis Avould repeat his triumph — 
Iioav impossible, he could repeat it forever. HaA r - 
ing but faint regard for most Iuavs, human or di- 
vine, he belieA’ed implicitly in the lex talionis. 
He guessed Avith Avliat malicious scrutiny his do- 
mestic life would be watched ; and Iioav little 
sympathy the assailant of others’ peace Avas like- 
ly to meet Avith if his oavii Avere imperilled ; Avhat 
exultation, covert if not expressed, would be felt 
in certain quarters if it came fairly to Avreck. It 
Avas odd enough, yet true, that he had never, in 
all his life, experienced one real pang of jealousy. 
What if this infirmity Avere to come, in the train 
of others, with advancing years ? He had seen 
the faces of better and Aviser men Avax haggard 
and drawn under the sIoav torment ; and he had 
no mind to see such a reflection in his own mir- 
ror. It A\ r as many years since he had read the 
Betrothed; but, if he had forgotten all other 
points of the tale, he had not forgotten the sub- 
stance of stout Wilkin Plammox’s speech to the 
Constable. 

“ Think her shut up in yonder solitary castle, 
under such respectable protection, and reflect Iioav 
long the place will be solitary in this land of love 
and adventure ! We shall haA r e minstrels singing 
ballads by the score under our Avindows, and such 
twangling of harps as Avould be enough to frighten 
our Avails from their foundations, as clerks say 
happened to those of Jericho.” 

Mark Ramsay shivered Avithin himself at the 
bare idea of such a charge as the captaincy of La 
Garde Doloreuse. 

No. The help meet for him Avas a Avoman 
Avho coqjd sAveep graciously and gracefully along 
the Avorld’s highway, not Avith prim precaution, 
yet keeping her dainty feet clear of mire and pit- 


falls ; Avith a face still so fair that his OAvn eyes 
might look on it long without Avearying ; with a 
charm of manner that Avould keep her attractive 
eA r en if the face should fade ; Avith tastes suffi- 
ciently in unison with his own to promise pleas- 
ant companionship in default of perfect sympathy 
betAvixt them; a woman, in fine, Avho could take 
her place Avorthily amongst the beauties of many 
generations Avhose portraits lined the Avails of 
Kenlis Castle. 

Such a one Mark thought he had found quite 
lately. 

He had long -been familiar Avith Blanche El- 
lerslie’s name ; Avhen they first met he felt only a 
languid curiosity, and desire to prove for himself 
Avhether fame had exaggerated the danger of her 
society. But before the first hour was over he 
became sensible, Avith rather pleasant surprise, 
that he Avas becoming subject to the fascination 
that had enthralled so many, and recognized that 
there were fresh sensations still for his jaded 
palate. As they Avere throAvn together her in- 
fluence greAV on him more and more. lie no 
longer Avatched her coquetries levelled at others 
with the calm amusement of ' a mere spectator. 
Once or tAvice, Avhen he found himself forestalled 
in attracting attention, he had stood aside, smil- 
ing a little disdainfully, yet conscious all the while 
of a sharp, sullen pang that he could not account 
for. You see, up to this time, Mark had never 
been quite certain that he had a heart, in the 
common acceptation of the term ; and so could 
not be expected to be Avell up in the symptoms of 
cardiac disease. At last he Avas fain to confess 
to himself that he Avas as firmly and fiercely bent 
on the Avinning of Blanche, Ellerslie as lie had 
ever been on Avinning any woman living or dead. 
He had given up, almost from the first, any idea 
of attaining this end in any Avay saA r e one — the 
making her his Avife. 

And noAV you know Avliat those tA\*o Avords 
meant, that hovered on Ramsay’s lips as he be- 
took himself to his rest. 

• 

CHAPTER V. 

Both in high and Ioav places of this Avorld, 
there are found scores of homely humdrum per- 
sons, Avho, plodding on through life in their oaati 
placid Avay, are ahvays equal to any emergency 
Avhatsoever, and come out of such ordeals in- 
finitely better than their flashy felloAvs. 

Hugh Earl of Nithsdale Avas one of those. 
He Avas thoroughly bucolic in his tastes ; never 
so happy as Avhen jogging about on his quiet old 
cob, chatting Avith his tenants, or planning im- 
proA-ements Avith his steward and Avood-reeve. 
He held Pope to be the A r ery chief of English 
poets, simply for having penned the words 

u God made the country, but man made the town.” 

That hackneyed line seemed to him the embodi- 
ment of one of the noblest truths that have ever 
been promulgated in prose or verse. He never 
breathed quite freely in an atmosphere laden 
Avith smoke, and penned-in betwixt brick and 
mortar ; and felt far wearier after a lounge over 
pavement or trim gravel than after a trudge 
through the stiffest clay in the Midland shires. 
I believe, if the truth Avere knoAvn, he kept a 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


17 


private calendar in school-boy fashion, and mark- 
ed off the days of the London season ; congrat- 
ulating himself, as he lay down each night, that 
his holidays were so much nearer. In general 
society he was not only silent and reserved, but 
shy to boot: and would flee from the face of 
morning visitors, to hide himself in the recesses 
of his library, till such tyranny was overpast. 

Nevertheless, when the saloons of Nithsdale 
House were full, the master of the mansion 
seemed thoroughly at home and at his ease, and 
essentially the right man in the right place. 
No critic could have found a flaw in the gentle, 
grave courtesy with which he received his guests, 
and cared for their comfort. Having to wel- 
come, for the first time in his life, certain august 
personages, he went through the ceremony, not 
with the tremor of one on whom unmerited or 
unexpected honor is conferred, but like a man 
whose ancestors from immemorial time have 
been deemed worthy of a place at the right- 
hand of royalty, whether in feast or fray. 

Not a few there present noticed this, and spoke 
of it afterward with a little wonder. The Count- 
ess Rose was not so busy but that she found leisure 
to mark how her husband bore himself, and to feel 
proud of him withal. When she had said “good- 
night ” for the last time, she was too utterly weary 
to talk even to him, and crept off to her pillow, 
whereon, till long after the sun was high, she slept 
the deep dreamless sleep that comes after toilsome 
triumph. But her first waking thought was a re- 
gret that she had not thanked her dear kind Hugh 
for playing his part so well. 

Nothing short of illness, or a social revolution, 
would have broken the even current of the Earl’s 
methodical ways. Late as it was when he lay 
down to rest, he rose at his usual hour, and was 
hard at work in his library — for business letters 
were unusually numerous that morning — when a 
message came that the Countess meant to lunch 
in her boudoir, and begged that he would join 
her. 

Only once before, since their marriage, had 
the Earl been so favored. It was when Rose 
was kept for a day in her rooms from the effects 
of a chill. He felt as pleased as a boy who has 
been asked to an impromptu picnic, and at the 
appointed hour he mounted the stair with an 
eager haste, curiously contrasting with his usual- 
ly sober gait. Yet he stood still for an instant in 
the doorway. Truly it was a picture worth paus- 
ing over that he saw. 

The Countess was lying, almost at full length, 
on a low, broad sofa. The Mazai'in blue of the 
huge pillows in which her slight figure was half 
buried brought out in relief the soft tints of her 
face and hair ; though her face was paler than 
usual, and there were dark circles under the long 
brown eyes. A pair of dainty slippers, broider- 
ed to match her peignoir, just peeped out under 
the ample skirt of soft gray silk, with broad cerise 
facings. Her husband thought — perhaps with 
justice — that he had never looked on any thing 
so lovely, and his grave voice faltered a little 
with very tenderness as he leaned over her, say- 
ing: 

“Very tired, my darling ? I am sure I don’t 
wonder.” 

She wound her arm round his neck and drew 
his head down lower and lower till his cheek 
rested on her lips. 


“Only pleasantly tired, Hugh; and it was 
worth while, was it not ? Fancy my going to 
bed without thanking you for all the trouble you 
took to make it go off well ! You dear patient 
thing ! I was watching you all the time, and you 
never yawned once, though you hate late hours 
so — ” 

The Earl laughed quite merrily as he sat down 
on the footstool close to his wife’s side, keeping 
her hand in his, and counting the jewels in her 
rings one by one. 

“You foolish child, did you think that all the 
burden of doing the honors was to be laid on 
your poor little shoulders ? These things haven’t 
been much in my line ; you’re right there. And 
I dare say I made some bungle that you never 
noticed ; but I shall improve by practice. I 
wasn’t bored for one single instant — I was too 
busy; and it was quite amusement enough for 
me to watch you enjoying yourself. You did 
that, I think ; though you looked rather nerv- 
ous at first.” 

“Yes, I did enjoy myself,” she said; “but I 
think I am happier, now that I am quite sure 
you were not bored. 'My conscience is quite 
easy now, and — I do hope they’ve sent us some- 
thing nice for lunch; I’m so awfully hungry.” 

It was a very pleasant meal — the pleasanter, 
perhaps, to one of the partakers thereof because 
there was not the faintest chance of its being in- 
truded on ; for the most familiar of Lady Niths- 
dale’s friends — the few to whom the formal inter- 
dict of “not at home ” had ceased to apply — would 
never have dreamt of breaking in on her repose 
till much later in the day. Lady Daventry her- 
self was scarce likely to show before afternoon 
tea. When lunch was cleared away, and they 
were alone again, said the Countess Rose : 

“Now, Hugh, I particularly wish to know if 
you noticed one single thing go wrong last night, 
or that you would have wished otherwise.” 

The Earl pondered a while. He was very loth 
to damp his wife’s elation, were it ever so little; 
but he was too honest to keep back the truth. 

“Well, there was one thing, Rose,” he said 
hesitatingly ; — “don’t be alarmed, it was a very 
trifling thing. Your invitation-list was perfect, 
with one exception — I do wish you hadn’t asked 
Mr. Kendall.” 

Lady Nithsdale raised her long eyelashes in 
languid surprise. 

“Now you do puzzle me. Why on earth 
should you object to poor Horace Kendall? I 
fancied you didn’t even know him by sight. I 
hardly know him myself; but I should have 
mortally offended Lady Longfield if I had re- 
fused him a card. From what I have seen of 
him I should think him the most inoffensive 
creature alive, though he is so clever in his own 
way.” 

The Earl bent his shaggy brows till they met. 

“There’s no more harm in Lady Longfield 
than in most other empty-headed women, I dare 
say ; but she’s too fond of patronage to be very 
careful where she bestows it. It’s quite as well 
she has no daughters of her own to look after. 
I never saw Mr. Kendall, to my knowledge, till 
yesterday ; but I have heard quite enough. It’s 
the fashion to cultivate him now, of course. 
That don’t make him in my mind a bit more fit- 
ting friend for your sister. And I don’t believe, 
Rose, you’d consider him so perfectly inoffensive 


B 


18 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY.; OR, 


if you had watched, as I did, how completely he 
engrossed Nina last night.” 

Now the Earl — though about the last man liv- 
ing to wish to level or lower the standard of his 
order — was singularly unapt to stand upon its 
privileges. He would talk just as frankly and 
genially with one of his own farmers as with the 
inheritor of forty quarterings ; and even the 
Radical solicitor who opposed him at elections, 
and strove in all ways to undermine his county 
influence, never hinted that Lord Nithsdale had 
a purpose in being, as he expressed it, “so infer- 
nally affable.” Very seldom in all his life had 
he been heard to speak hardly or harshly to any 
fellow-creature. Indeed, he had sometimes 
scandalized his brother magistrates at Quarter 
Sessions by his ingenuity in finding excuses for 
criminals. No one knew this better than his 
wife ; and she felt he must have good reason for 
so speaking, though she answered laughingly : 

“Nina ! You don’t mean that puss got into 
mischief at her first ball? She ought to have 
been sent supperless to bed, at least. No, I no- 
ticed nothing ; but I wonder mamma didn’t, 
though she is so dreadfully short-sighted. She 
was too busy helping me, I suppose. The child 
shall have a real good scolding when she comes 
to tea.” 

Flirtations were things so entirely out of Lord 
Nithsdale’s line, that it may be worth while to 
explain his reasons for interference. 


CHAPTER YI. 

A quarter of a century ago few people, living 
beyond its immediate neighborhood, were aware 
of the existence of such a place as Swetenham. 
Lying somewhat out of the great highway to the 
West, it was scarcely possible to conceive any trav- 
eller being attracted there on business, and the 
country around was not sufficiently picturesque to 
tempt artistic explorers. Every thing is changed 
now. Almost the sole relic of the quiet little 
hamlet is the gray old church-tower, that seems 
strangely misplaced amongst the red-brick street- 
rows radiating from the station on a well-travel- 
led branch-line. 

The great men of those parts for many gene- 
rations had been the Vernons of Vernon Mallory. 
The then-time representative of that family was 
a very unpopular character ; and deservedly so ; 
for his manners and morals rather beseemed a 
Hungarian magnate than a decent English 
squire. Arrogant amongst his equals, he ground 
down dependents and inferiors to a dead-level of 
servility ; hunted poachers like wild-beasts, — 
with hound, if not with horn ; and in more ways 
than one evinced ideas of feudal privileges ut- 
terly out of date even in the earlier part of the 
nineteenth century. Several children had been 
borne to him by a wife endowed with a temper 
almost as haughty as his own, who was not in- 
clined to condone his numberless infidelities. 
Horace Vernon was a profligate of the worst 
possible form ; his victims were chosen usually 
from the class whose wrongs, by virtue of his sta- 
tion, he was bound to redress ; and he was ut- 
terly unscrupulous as to the means of working 
out his will. His love, or the brutal passion that 
he dignified by the name, was more harmful than 


his anger ; and it was better to see his cruel eyes 
set like black flint-stones, than melting into 
teacherous softness. Educational boards, and 
middle-class examinations, had not come into ex- 
istence then ; and Radicalism had not spread far 
beyond the outskirts of towns: peasants and 
small yeomen, in many remote rural districts, 
were as stupidly patient and irritationally loyal as 
any Carinthian boor. Men would look up from 
their work and scowl as the wicked squire rode 
by, and perhaps growl a curse under their breath ; 
but none murmured or complained aloud : even 
in the ale-house, when tongues were loosened by 
liquor, only a glum, significant silence followed 
the mention of his name. So long as Horace 
Vernon was not thwarted abroad, he cared little 
for being called to account at home ; and went 
on the tenor of his way, reckless, if not rejoicing. 
Nevertheless, in the great house there was dis- 
content always, and not seldom bitter word-duels. 

If the dwellers in and about Swetenham were 
not lucky in their landlord, they could boast of 
one blessing not to be despised. It was the 
healthiest place possible. It lay in a broad val- 
ley, sheltered to the east and north, but athwart 
which there was free passage for the pleasant 
breezes that swept over the chalk downs. So the 
sanitary requirements of the neighborhood were 
easily satisfied ; indeed, there was no more than 
work enough for a single practitioner. 

For nearly fifty years this post had been filled 
by a certain Doctor Thorner. All medical men 
were “doctors ” in those parts and those days, 
without regard to their precise diploma or de- 
gree. You needed only to watch him jogging 
along behind his sober old pony, and coming to 
a stand-still wherever he got a chance of a gossip 
on the road or over a gate, to guess at once that 
there was seldom urgent need for his services. 
In truth, these were chiefly confined to bringing 
young folks into the world, and helping old ones 
to slide out of it comfortably. But the shadow 
on the dial kept creeping on — a little more slow- 
ly, perhaps, than in other places, yet still creep- 
ing on, even in Swetenham. Doctor Thorner 
felt less equal to his work, light as it was, and less 
patient of interruptions to his night’s rest. He 
had saved more than enough to furnish thence- 
forward his modest needs ; but was too wise to 
give up practice altogether, for the bread of utter 
idleness would certainly have disagreed with his 
digestion ; so he determined to retire on half-pay 
for the present, and to take an assistant. One 
fine morning a new doctor appeared in Sweten- 
ham. 

James Kendall was a man of about thirty, with 
a sharp fox face and foxy hair ; a low though 
not a pleasant voice ; and a manner that most 
people found disagreeably obsequious. The mas- 
ter of Vernon Mallory was not easily surfeited 
with servility ; from the very first he seemed to 
take a fancy to the new-comer, and treated him 
with more courtesy — cold as it was — than he had 
ever shown to the honest, homely old man who 
had assisted at his own birth, and the deaths of 
both his parents. 

The discords and bickerings at the great 
house had waxed bitterer of late ; indeed, ever 
since the establishment there of Mademoiselle 
Adele Deshon in the quality of governes^. She 
was a Provencalc ; rather piquantc than pretty : 
perhaps her only real attractions were large 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


19 


velvety eye?, an I a superb contralto voice, per- 
fectly trained. The squire was really fond of 
music, and himself no mean performer; so per- 
haps it was only natural that he should take 
pleasure in Mademoiselle Adele’s performances, 
and, to a certain extent, pleasure in her society. 
But Lady Eleanor Vernon in no wise saw the 
matter in this light. She did not care to dis- 
semble her dislike to the foreigner ; and soon 
was not ashamed to put her suspicions into 
words. Ere long reports came to her ears that 
fanned the jealous embers into flame — reports 
of meetings, frequent and prolonged, not in her 
presence ; and of words and actions that Grisel- 
da would scarce have looked on tamely. Then 
the Lady Eleanor took up the daggers in earn- 
est ; and there was a battle- royal — a battle such 
as the servants (unhappily used to such scenes) 
spoke of afterward with ’bated breath — a battle 
that was bound, one way or another, to be decis- 
ive. 

Oddly enough, the event was not such as 
might have been expected from the relative 
strength of the belligerents. At the moment 
when she seemed certain of defeat, Lady Elea- 
nor, for the first time in her matronly broils, fell 
back upon ‘her family,’ and that army of re- 
serve turned the fortunes of the day. With all 
his violence, Horace Vernon was not blinded 
by passion ; though he might utterly disregard 
the good or bad opinion of his poorer neighbors, 
he was by no means indifferent to the opinion 
of the county at large, or inclined to risk his 
own position therein. He knew very well that 
this w’ould be jeopardized, and seriously too, if 
he were brought into open collision with the 
House of Arlington — a house thrice as power- 
ful as his own, and not less unscrupulous than 
himself in the exercise of their power. If Lady 
Eleanor betook herself to her own people, insist- 
ing on a separation, with grounds of complaint 
just and grave, the squire guessed that place 
would no longer be found for him amongst the 
magnates of the land. Many who never trou- 
bled themselves to sift reports, or inquire into 
village scandal, would have been earnest enough 
in their partisanship when it was a question of 
Lady Eleanor Vernon’s wrongs. 

Though the squire cursed and stormed more 
savagely than his wont, evidently weakness was 
at the bottom of all that fume and fury. The 
wife kept her temper in a manner marvellous 
for one of her character — kept her ground too 
steadfastly — and at last carried her point, as she 
well deserved. 

It chanced that James Kendall came to Ver- 
non Mallory that same afternoon to visit one of 
the household. After leaving his patient he 
was summoned to the squire’s study, and re- 
mained closeted there for a full hour. When 
he drove away, there was a great satisfaction on 
his cunning face, tempered by the momentary 
distaste of a man who has bound himself to per- 
form some hard or unpleasant service on ex- 
ceedingly remunerative terms. Immediately 
afterward Mdlle. Deshon was called into her 
master’s presence. The interview was long, 
and, if domestic tittle-tattle is to be believed, 
very tempestuous. Some servants passing near 
the study-door heard the Provencale’s rich round 
voice strained and shrill in plaint or reviling, 
answered by the deep harsh tones that, when 


Horace Vernon was angered, sounded like the 
growl of distant thunder. When Mdlle.’ Adele 
came forth, she went straight to her own cham- 
ber, whence she emerged no more that evening; 
but one of the house-maids, who crossed her on 
her way thither, averred that “Mam’sell look- 
ed as pale as a turnip, and her eyelids were as 
red and puffed as ripe gooseberries.” The next 
morning the village gossips — there were gossips 
in an out-of-the-way hamlet flve-and-twenty 
years ago — -were startled by the news that the 
new doctor had been for some time past engaged 
to the governess at the great house, and that the 
marriage would take place shortly. 

A week later it was noised abroad that Doc- 
tor Thorner had, for a liberal consideration, 
been induced to abandon his practice altogether 
to his assistant ; and that thenceforward Sweten- 
ham and the neighborhood would be under 
James Kendal’s sole medical care. 

It was a very quiet wedding. The only per- 
son of any importance present was the squire 
himself, whose louring face would have suited a 
funeral better than such a ceremony; and nei- 
ther the bride nor the bridegroom looked pre- 
cisely like people whose uttermost happiness is 
crowned. Before Adele had been long a wife, 
a weakness in her lungs displayed itself — at 
least, so her husband said, and he, of course, 
must have known best — that could only be ar- 
rested by removal to a warmer climate. So 
she went to her own people in Provence, and 
abode with them nearly twelve months. She 
returned to all appearance perfectly recovered, 
bringing with her a handsome dark-haired bey 
— extraordinarily forward for a yearling — who 
had already been christened “ in honor ” — Adele 
was wont to murmur demurely — “of our good 
friend and benefactor up yonder.” The precise 
nature of such benevolence she never cared to 
define ; neither into such matters was it any 
body’s special business to inquire. 

In the twenty years that ensued, Doctor Ken- 
dall certainly prospered. He was clever in his 
profession, and wrought many cures in cases 
where honest old Thorner would have thrown 
up his hands in despair; and his practice had 
largely increased, especially since the branch 
railway was begun ; for the navvies were not 
only always cuttirig and maiming themselves 
after their fashion, but also infected the neigh- 
borhood with evil habits of debauch and drink. 
So grist flowed in fast to the medical mill — not 
quite fast enough though for all the luxuries in 
which his wife indulged, nor for the expensive 
education of his son. Being an only child, it 
was perhaps likely that Horace should be much 
indulged ; but one or two of the more sharp- 
sighted of Kendall’s neighbors thought the doc- 
tor’s manner was scarcely that of an over-fond 
father. He seemed to yield to the boy’s whims, 
and overlooked his insolence, rather because it 
was politic than pleasant to him so to do. With 
each year, Horace seemed less inclined to cum- 
ber himself with putting on even a decent sem- 
blance of filial respect. All the affection he 
had to spare centred itself in his mother, who 
certainly deserved it by her intense devotion : it 
was a great trial to both when Horace left home 
to live permanently in London, on his appoint- 
ment to a clerkship in the Rescript Office. 

Retribution for the sins of his vouth had come 


20 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


heavily, in more ways than one, on the master 
of Vernon Mallory. He had plunged deep into 
speculation of late years with the headlong ob- 
stinacy of a man who will listen to no counsels 
but his own, believing the rest of mankind to be 
either fools or knaves. He struggled out of the 
quagmire, not absolutely ruined, but crippled in 
income for the rest of his life. The expenses of 
his family — though he grudged every shilling not 
spent on his own comfort — added to his numer- 
ous ailments, caused the squire to break up his 
establishment, and reside almost always abroad. 
Ilis last act before leaving England was to ex- 
ert his influence to obtain that clerkship in the 
Rescript Office for Horace Kendall. Competi- 
tive examinations were not as yet; and Vernon 
of Vernon Mallory had always shown himself a 
stanch adherent to the party then in power. It 
was not a great boon for a man to ask, who 
brought up as many votes to an election as he 
could count tenants ; for none of these had yet 
been found bold or enlightened enough to run 
counter to their lord’s will. Such a patriot would 
have been dismissed very speedily to ruminate 
in fresh pastures on the blessings of indepen- 
dence and the privileges of our glorious consti- 
tution. 

Horace Kendall began life under auspices ex- 
ceptionably favorable for a country apothecary’s 
son. He had personal advantages of no mean 
order. His face was decidedly handsome, in the 
jeune premier style, with a delicacy of feature 
almost effeminate ; and he had the full eloquent 
Proven9al eyes ; his figure was, though long and 
loosely hung, one of those that make up well un- 
der the hands of an artistic tailor; his manner, 
though sometimes rather affected, was not devoid 
of a certain grace ; and by some mysterious 
means there was provided for him an allowance 
more than sufficient. 

Yet, for a while, he seemed not likely to make 
the best of a good start, and among his immedi- 
ate associates was decidedly unpopular. The Re- 
script Office men were not more fastidious than 
other civil servants ; but they generally con- 
trived to find out something concerning the an- 
tecedents of each fresh recruit to their small and 
select company. There were several among 
them not much, if at all, superior to Kendall in 
, birth — according to his reputed parentage — who 
got on perfectly with their fellows, both in and 
out of office hours. But then these men bore 
themselves modestly, not with the assumption in 
which Horace saw fit to indulge. 

There are degrees and differences in conceit, as 
every one knows. There is the light, frothy con- 
ceit easily blown away with a strong breath, which 
not unfrequently floats on the surface of a gene- 
rous nature. There is the puerile conceit of the 
spoiled page, which provokes a not ill-natured 
laugh from manhood, and often meets encour- 
agement from women. Lastly, there is the con- 
ceit ingrain — at which none are inclined to smile, 
even if they chafe not thereat — that betrays it- 
self not so much by vaulting words as by subtle 
self-assertion. This last, surely, never since the 
world begun, has been known to leaven stuff out 
of which brave or wise or honest men are made. 

“A natural curiosity, ” said Walter Rouge m on t, 
the heraldic authority of the Rescript Office. 
“That supercilious look of his yesterday, and the 
wayin which he minced out * Cheltenham ’ when 


Goodenough talked of having been at school 
there, were quite a study. But when I want to 
see natural curiosities I go to a museum. If he 
knew his own interests, he would not always be 
provoking people to ask ‘ who is he ?’ I'm not 
quite clear about it yet : but I have more than 
a vague notion that, if lie’s any right to armorial 
bearings, it is as a ‘Fitz ’ somebody or other. I 
vote we begin seriously to take the conceit out 
of him. The man’s a perfect nuisance as he 
stands.” 

Now this exhaustive process, however sanitary 
in the end, is intensely disagreeable to the pa- 
tient. Kendall’s self-sufficiency was in no wise 
proof against the keen sharp-pointed shafts that 
ever and anon sought out the joints of his har- 
ness ; and, when he was free from such annoy- 
ance, the sense of isolation was almost more in- 
tolerable. Ere long Horace felt so thoroughly 
ill at ease that he was sorely tempted to resign, 
and seek fortune elsewhere. While his first Lon- 
don season was yet young, all such notions van- 
ished, and his social prospects brightened sud- 
denly. Kendall’s visiting-list was, thus far, very 
limited ; but he chanced one night to be present 
at a large musical party whereat most of the cog- 
noscenti then in London were assembled. He 
knew hardly any one there, and hovered rather 
disconsolately near the piano, where somehow he 
felt rather more at home. It was not a set pro- 
gramme, and there was plenty of room for ama- 
teurs as well as professionals to display their tal- 
ent ; but it was rather late before the mistress 
of the house bethought herself of asking Kendall 
to sing. 

“He has rather a singing face,” she thought, 
“and must be fond of music, or he would not 
have been hovering round the instrument all 
night.” 

Horace complied very willingly. He was 
not a whit troubled with bashfulness, and reckon- 
ed — not without reason — on some sort jaf a tri- 
umph, though most assuredly not on such a one 
as he obtained. His audience were fairly taken 
by storm. Professionals were not less enthusias- 
tic than amateurs in their praise of the purest 
tenor voice that had been heard in London 
saloons for many a day ; and those who under- 
stood such matters best affirmed that there was 
in it a latent power that only needed to be de- 
veloped to surpass many of high renown on the 
stage. 

Thenceforward Horace’s immediate future was 
assured. On the morrow morning he woke and 
found himself The Fashion ; what that terse and 
rather vulgar expression signified, every one 
knows. Before long, as far as evening parties 
were concerned, he was only troubled by the em- 
barrassment of choice. His fellows in the Rescript 
Office liked him perhaps not a whit better ; but 
they could nothelp feeling a certain pride at count- 
ing amongst their subalterns such a celebrity; 
and they could not deny that he had some right 
to give himself airs now — the which privilege 
Kendall was not minded to neglect. * 

Adele Kendall was not a model, either as^a 
wife or a mother: but the wisest and purest of 
women need not have been ashamed of such tears 
as clouded her eyes as she laid down the letter m 
which her son’s first success was set forth, and 
in a long sweet day-dream built up a. stately air- 
temple, fit one day to be her idol’s shrine. ", - 


21 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


Amongst those who cultivated the new celeb- 
rity most assiduously was the Lady Longfield | 
mentioned above, concerning whom Hugh of j 
Nithsdale spoke so irreverently. She was one 
of those wealthy, worthy widows, with hearts 
even larger than their purses, who seem to thrive 
nowhere so naturally as on English soil, who al- 
ways mean thorouglily well by their generation, 
even if they do not greatly contribute to its credit 
or well-being. Amongst all followers of that 
haute ve'nerie there was found no- more intrepid 
“lion-hunter.” “ Lion-slayer ” to boot she was 
called by her detractors ; in truth, sooner or later, 
in one fashion or another, her proteyes generally 
managed to come to grief. But, putting a little 
harmless vanity aside, she had no selfish motive 
in the pursuit ; and, though her days of mourning 
lasted not long, no one regretted more sincerely 
the shortcomings or downfall of her favorites. 
For the time being, she spoiled them intensely, 
and no amount of disappointments could teach 
her discretion in patronage. She might be as 
plaintive as you please overnight ; but the joy 
of a fresh and rarer discovery was almost sure to 
come with the morning ; and her moan over the 
monarch of her affections was scarcely made, 
before on her lips resounded a jubilant — “ Long 
live the king !” 

It was very pleasant to have the entree at all 
canonical hours to that charming mansion in 
May-fair, where every domestic detail was fault- 
less, and visitors found themselves metaphorical- 
ly, no less than literally, on velvet ; but the at- 
mosphere would have been pernicious to a health- 
ier nature than Horace Kendall’s. Very few 
men of his age can occupy the oracular tripod 
round which clouds of incense are always stream- 
ing, with senses sober and clear ; and fewer still 
can feed on flattery daily, without waxing over- 
weening as Jeshurun on the rich, unwholesome 
diet. 

Lady Longfield did not scruple to suggest to 
her new favorite that he should abandon at once 
mechanical quill-driving, and seek fame and for- 
tune on the operatic stage. To this plan Horace 
lent a not unwilling ear. Whilst it w'as yet im- 
mature, he w T rote to Swetenham setting forth 
this new project, in perfect confidence of its 
meeting with assent and encouragement. Had 
the answer rested with her alone, it is certain 
Mrs. Kendall would have tried to promote this 
like any other whim of her spoiled darling; but 
she was fain to take others into counsel. With- 
in a week there came from across the seas a 
veto, curt, stern, and decisive, that neither mothey 
nor son dared disregard ; so for the present 
Horace was fain to content himself with private 
ovations instead of aspiring to public triumphs. 

There was a faint savor of bitterness in the 
luscious cup that day by day he drained so 
eagerly. His presence was sought by many 
melo-maniacs in “ the upper ten yet his over- 
weening vanity did not blind him to the fact that 
it was in a semi-professional capacity that he 
was welcomed in their houses. Only at Lady 
Longfield’s he was thoroughly at home. His 
hostesses were civil and grateful to a degree ; 
but after their most elaborate compliments and 
expansive thanksgiving, he felt as if he were be- 
ing paid in kind, if not in coin. Their daughters 
were liberal of pretty speeches and smiles ; but 
somehow he never found his way into a coterie ; 


and with every advantage of time and place, lie 
could never bring off one of the “cosy two- 
handed cracks,” contrived even in the heart of a 
crowded assembly, by barbarians who had not so 
much as heard of the chromatic scale. 

With men he was not a whit more popular 
than before he began to be famous. They had 
no purpose to serve in gaining his “ most sweet 
voice,” and troubled themselves very little with 
his whims or his ways — always excepting certain 
parvenus and their parasites, to whom notoriety 
was a sufficient attraction. Not many seemed 
to care for more than a nodding acquaintance 
with Kendall ; and when he sought to be admit- 
ted into a certain club — not ill-naturedly exclu- 
sive as a rule — he was “pilled ” pitilessly. 

With all his fatuity, Horace had a keen cun- 
ning eye for his own interests, and very just 
ideas as to the wisdom of filling his garden whilst 
the sun shone. A marriage that by connection, 
if not by mere dowry, would assure his posi- 
tion thenceforth forever, was the aim set steadi- 
fastly before him. There was nothing wildly 
improbable in such ambition. Was he not, in 
common with other frequenters of the Mile, 
dazzled daily by the gorgeous equipages of Ca- 
mille Desmoulins, who, not long ago, had been 
content with the modest salary of a second-rate 
tenor ; and was it not known how the said Ca- 
mille, with no other exertion — bodily or intel- 
tellectual — had so warbled himself into the good 
graces of a wealthy widow, that she proffered 
him the guardianship of her venerable person, 
and of her vast worldly goods ? Kendall knew 
himself to be an adventurer, and felt no shame 
in avowing it to himself ; reckoning his chances 
and resources quite coolly, he came to the con- 
clusion that he had the pull of most of his rivals 
in the ignoble race. 

Nevertheless, the curtain dropped on the sum- 
mer season, the country visits that engrossed al- 
most all his autumn furlough were over, the 
mild dissipations of winter were past — and his 
object as yet assumed no more definite form and 
substance than the shadows that cross magic 
mirrors or glide past the watchers on All-IIal- 
low-eve. Horace w*axed discontented, if not 
disappointed ; but, before the spring was far 
advanced, there came a salve to his wounded 
vanity. 

Gwendoline — more familiarly called Nina Mar- 
ston — was, as the most indulgent of her friends 
and kinsfolk allowed, “a very odd girl.” She 
was not eighteen yet, so that her character could 
scarcely have developed itself ; yet, even now it 
presented the strangest contrast cf weakness and 
strength. In what manner Lady Daventry’s 
children were trained has already been told. 
Nina was no exception to the general laissez-aller 
rule ; indeed, being decidedly independent, not 
to say turbulent by nature, she emancipated 
herself sooner than Rose had done from the light 
thraldom of the governess ; and, being less a 
favorite with her mother, was left ‘more entirely to 
her own devices. She was as different as possiblo 
from her sister, physically no less than morally. 
Till you remembered how such peculiarities re- 
appeared capriciously after the lapse of genera- 
tions, and that within the last century and a 
half there had come a Spanish cross into the 
Marston blood, you would have been puzzled to 
account for the wavy black hair, and the eyes 


22 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


more intensely black that lit np the small dark 
resolute face. After being an hour in Nina Mar- 
ston's company, and watching the play of her 
lips, you guessed that she was a woman already 
in willfulness and tenacity of purpose; yet im- 
pulsive withal, and romantic to a degree most 
uncommon in these days, when our very school- 
girls smile at the love-conceits which beguiled 
their grand-dames, even as they may have smiled 
at the philandering of Arcadia. 

It was at the very beginning of Nina’s first sea- 
son, before her presentation-dress was ordered, 
that she met Horace Kendall at a morning con- 
cert, and heard him sing. As she drove home she 
said to herself, “ she had met her fate.” Now, 
in the mouths of most girls, such words would 
have been a mere form of romantic speaking; 
with Nina, it unhappily was not so. 

She was none of the little melodramatic hero- 
ines who talk by rote ; but one of those who 
play out their parts, good or bad, only too natu- 
rally. They met tolerably often after that first 
day. Horace Kendall was no dunce in such 
matters ; but it needed no expert to decipher the 
language of the great earnest eyes that rested on 
him with such rapt attention whilst he was sing- 
ing, and followed him afterward, till they hid 
themelves shyly under their long lashes if their 
pursuit was detected. He came from the Niths- 
dale ball with a pleasant conviction of “having 
made an impression in that quarter,” and a firm 
resolve to work out the chance to the utter- 
most. 

Lady Haventrvdid not bow down and worship 
before the newly-discovered star. She was quite 
content with her own set, and found her house 
sufficiently attractive, without calling in the aid 
of talent, professional or otherwise. Neverthe- 
less, Horace was sufficiently well-acquainted with 
her to warrant his seeking an introduction to 
Nina early in the evening. Lady Haven try was 
not at the best of times a vigilant chaperon ; and 
all her energies that night were engrossed in 
giving aid and encouragement to her elder daugh- 
ter : she performed the presentation almost me- 
chanically, and was too busy afterward to notice 
the flirtation which gave umbrage to Hugh of 
Nithsdale. Had she known of it, it is possible 
that haughty dame would not have lain down to 
rest without a single misgiving of the complete 
success of the entertainment. 

Rose Nithsdale was tod thoroughly good-na- 
tured to get any one, gentle or simple, into a 
scrape if she could possibly avoid it, and had a 
great horror even of the mildest domestic discus- 
sion. She stood in great awe of Lady Daventry, 
who was, in truth, anything but a stern duenna. 
Nevertheless, she resolved that the punishment- 
parade should be strictly private, and, on some 
pretext or another, carried Nina off into her own 
dressing-room before she said a word concern- 
ing the misdemeanor of overnight. When Lady 
Nithsdale did speak, she spoke very much to the 
purpose, and with most unwonted earnestness 
and energy ; but the culpritwas quite impenitent, 
and seemed inclined to justify, if not to glory, in 
her guilt. 

“I never heard so much ado about nothing.” 
she said. “ If I had waltzed five times running, 
or sat out half the night, with Regy Avenel, or 
any of that lot, I should’nt have heard a word 
about it ; and I don’t see why Mr. Kendall isn’t 


as good as any of them, though he don’t happen 
to be in your set.” 

“ We know who ‘ that lot’ are, at all events,” 
Rose Nithsdale said ; “and of Mr. Kendall we 
know absolutely nothing, except that he sings 
charmingly. Regy Avenel would never have 
dreamed of compromising a child like you at her 
first ball.” 

“No, he only compromises married women. 
So kind of him — isn’t it ? So kind of you, too, 
to sacrifice yourselves to keep us out of harm’s 
way. I thought you were too well amused last 
night, Rosie, to watch other people amusing 
themselves.” 

“ I didn’t watch you ; but Hugh told me this 
morning — ” the Countess checked herself ab- 
ruptly, biting her pretty lip ; she saw she had 
made a false move. 

“Hugh is more than old enough to be my 
father, I’m quite aware of that,” Nina retorted ; 
“ but while papa’s alive I don’t see that he’s 
any right to treat me paternally. He’ll have 
quite enough to do in looking after oneMarston, 
I fancy, without taking all the family on his 
hands.” 

It was hard indeed to ruffle Lady Nithsdale’s 
easy, indolent temper ; but she began to be pro- 
voked at the stubbornness of the reckless little 
rebel, and that last thrust touched her nearly. 
She rose up with no bad imitation of matronly 
dignity, considering how seldom she had tried 
to assume it. 

“ You're very ungrateful, Nina, and you speak 
very improperly about Hugh. It’s only too 
good of him to try to keep you out of mischief. 
I didn’t mean to worry mamma with this non- 
sense, but as you are so self-willed I must tell 
her about it. Perhaps she will make you listen 
to reason.” 

The stubborn defiant face changed into a look 
almost of terror. Nina was not the least afraid 
of her mother’s anger, but she was mortally 
afraid of being put under surveillance : that 
would materially interfere with the carrying out 
of divers ingenious schemes floating since last 
night in her busy brain. 

“ Oh Rosie, you won’t do that!” she whisper- 
ed coaxingly, nestling close to her sister’s side. 
“I didn’t mean to be ungrateful either to you 
or to Hugh — I didn’t indeed. If you only won’t 
speak to mamma, I promise to be as good as you 
please.” 

Lady Nithsdale was only too happy to accept 
the olive-branch ; she hated the idea of haling 
any one before the judgment-seat. In her own 
heart, she felt she was no more fitted to play the 
monitress, even to that willful child, than to 
teach a class in a Sunday-school. So she con- 
sented readily enough to connive for that once 
at Nina’s derogation ; and, without actually be- 
coming surety for her sister, contrive to persuade 
her husband that the offense should be repeated 
no more. 

— — — o 

CHAPTER YII. 

Mark Ramsay was none of those over-eager 
hunters who mar their own sport by impatience 
in the stalk. Every footfall that brought him 
nearer to his quarry was cautiously planted ; so 
that no rustic of leaf or grass-blade should star- 
tle in her fancied security the fair hind he had 


23 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


marked for liis own. Yet day by day, almost 
hour by hour, the distance between them les- 
sened. 

To those who knew Blanche Ellerslie, it would 
have seemed impossible that any man — not 
standing in the place of her accepted suitor — 
should find the field clear of rivalry more or less 
dangerous. Mark Ramsay’s attentions were 
never persecuting or obtrusive — seldom, indeed, 
so marked as they had been at the Nithsdale ball. 
Yet, somehow or other, the “old loves,” whose 
name was legion, found that an invisible circle 
was being drawn around her, wherein there was 
no rest for the soles of their feet. The small 
ear that used to listen so readily had grown 
strangely deaf to whispers of late ; the delicate 
lips answered kindly and courteously, but no 
longer with the old temptations of mockery or 
gibe : the soft eloquent eyes had grown pensive, 
and sometimes full of an anxiety which the most 
confident admirer could not flatter himself he 
inspired. 

Even Oswald Gauntlet, the famous and fatal 
horse-gunner (by the rules of the service lie had 
been transferred twice or thrice into a field-bat- 
tery, but even the War Office hadn’t the heart 
to keep him there), who, ever since their first flirt- 
ation on first principles — begun when Blanche 
was scarcely seventeen and Oswald a beardless 
aide-de-camp — had retained his post of High Con- 
fidant at the capricious little despot’s court, no 
matter how other ministers were changed, found 
himself, to all intents and purposes, shelved. 
He was a warning to all “scuffiers” present 
and to come, as he stood apart twisting his long 
tawny mustache in angry bewilderment ; always 
beset by the samh dreary doubt — “Whether it 
was worth while to come up all the way from 
.Woolwich for this ” — “ this ” meaning a passing 
fan-salute, or careless smile, or perchance a few 
words to which all the world might have listen- 
ed and been none the wiser. 

Now the thought of making Blanche Ellerslie 
his wife had never dwelt for an instant in Ma- 
jor Gauntlet’s mind. He was too poor a man 
to dream of such a luxury, and he had never in 
his life spoken to her passionate or over-earnest 
words : but he was really attached to her in his 
own fashion, and he felt their estrangement 
keenly. Furthermore, putting all jealousies 
aside — he was fain to confess to himself that he 
was jealous at last — Oswald happened to have 
heard more than most people of Mark Ramsay’s 
past ; and he would have been sorry to see any 
woman, for whom he cared ever so little, given 
over to that man’s keeping. One morning Ma- 
jor Gauntlet went to lunch in Gaunt Square, 
with the fixed resolve, if he found opportunity, 
to take heart of grace and say out his say. 

La Reine Gaillarde had a fine instinct in such 
matters ; and somehow guessed that it would 
not be disagreeable, to one of her guests, at least, 
if she left them alone. Any ordinary flirtation 
she was rather inclined to countenance than to 
hinder; and she was only too ready to aid and 
abet in any thing that might possibly weaken 
Ramsay’s growing influence over Blanche Ellers- 
lie. So, when they went up stairs after luncheon, 
the fair widow found herself en champ clos with 
no possibility of escape except by absolute flight, 
which she was not cowardly enough to contem- 
plate. Had she not been five hundred times be- 


fore alone with Oswald Gauntlet ; and was it 
not too utterly absurd to feel awkward now ? 
In spite of all this, she felt so nervous that it 
was almost a relief to her when he actually broke 
ground. 

“I have been waiting for this chance some 
time, Blanche ” — she was quite a girl when he 
came on her father’s staff, and he had called 
her ever since by her Christian name — “and 
I’m not going to waste it by talking nonsense 
now. You know pretty well how much and 
how little I like you ; and you know too, wheth- 
er I have deserved to be dropped as I have been 
of late. Good God ! you’re not going to deny 
it?” he broke out almost fiercely, seeing that 
she was about to speak. “Surely we’re too 
good friends still, to begin that kind of fencing. 
I’m not going to quarrel with you, and what’s 
more, I don’t complain. If a woman chooses 
that old acquaintance should be forgot, she’s 
only using her woman’s privilege. It’s of your 
new acquaintance I’m going to speak.” 

Mrs. Ellerslie had sat a picture of pretty peni- 
tence till now, with bowed head and drooping 
eyelashes; at those last words, she drew her- 
self up, and looked straight into Gauntlet’s 
face. 

“You mean Mr. Ramsay, I suppose.” 

“Could I mean any other?” he retorted. 
“ Now, Blanche, just be patient and hear me out. 
I sha’n’t bore you any more after to-day. If I 
had asked you to marry me, any time when you 
were free, you’d have said ‘no,’ I dare say. 
That’s neither here nor there ; but why I never 
could ask you, you know as well as I do. When 
I heard you were going to be married to poor 
Ellerslie, I didn’t like it at first, but I never 
grudged him his luck; and now, if I heard that 
the same luck had befallen any true, honest man, 
I wouldn’t grudge it him — I wouldn’t, by G — ! 
But I should grudge it to Ramsay; for I don’t 
believe he’s either honest or true.” 

They had known each other very long, and 
Oswald had often amused himself with teasing 
the pettish little beauty ; but ho had never be- 
fore seen real anger in her eyes. 

“ And that is your idea of truth and honesty,” 
she said, speaking very low, “to revenge your- 
self for neglect that was never intended, by com- 
ing here to say to me what you never would 
dare to say to him !” 

Major Gauntlet had won his cross, not by a 
single act of foolhardiness, but by repeated proofs 
of disciplined valor ; and he could well have af- 
forded to have passed over such a suspicion 
coming from a man’s lips. Coming from a 
woman’s, it only made him smile. 

“Wouldn’t I?” he said simply. “You are 
a very clever woman, Blanche Ellerslie — accus- 
tomed to read men’s hearts, and all the rest of 
it — and you know best, of course. Now I fan- 
cied, as I lay awake this morning, that there 
was nothing I should like better than to say to 
Mark Ramsay what I say to you — that lie’s not 
a fit person to be trusted with the happiness of 
any woman alive. There’s not the least neces- 
sity for your telling me I have no right to inter- 
fere between him and you. I’m perfectly well 
aware of that, and another taunt like that last 
one won’t make me forget it ; but I wouldn’t 
talk too much about ‘daring’ if I were you. 
It’s bad form, to say the least of it.” 


24 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


Blanche was thoroughly \ashamed of herself 
long before he had done speaking. 

“Those were very base words of mine,” she 


said ; “try and forget them. I am not used to 
being taken to task, and every one seems to 
have had a special call to do it lately ; I thought 



I was safe with you. I have never known you 
so hard on my fredaines before : you might look 
sulky at first, but you always laughed at last,” 


“ I wish I could laugh now,” he said. “ I’m 
doing no good here, I see : but., Blanche, for old 
acquaintance’ sake, answer me one question ; 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


25 


never mind whether I’ve a right to ask it or not. 
In spite of all you have heard or may hear, do 
you mean to marry Ramsay ?” 

“ He has never asked me.” 

The sentence meant little, but the shy, con- 
scious look, and the trembling of the voice, 
meant — all. The other knew that darker proofs 
of Ramsay’s unworthiness than he was prepared 
to bring forward would only embitter Blanche 
against himself, without turning her aside one 
hair’s-breadth from the path she was bent on 
pursuing. He rose up, with both her tiny hands 
in his own ; and his handsome face was very 
pale, though he strove to speak lightly. 

“ Don’t let us part in anger, because I was fool 
enough to think that my warning would not 
come too late. Perhaps you’ll need a friend yet 
before you die : when you do, you’ll not forget 
me, if I’m to the fore ? I sha’n’t see much of 
you for some months to come. I’ve been offered 
to go on this Commission that is to visit all the 
great fortresses and camps of Europe — a good 
thing for me, in more ways than one, just now. 
I suppose every thing will be settled before I come 
back. So — good-bye, Blanche, and God bless 
you !” 

Oswald Gauntlet was by no means a devout 
man. I fear he seldom attended public worship 
unless on dut}", or some such sort of compulsion ; 
and perhaps was not always regular in his pri- 
vate orisons. But no fanatic, trailing himself 
from shrine to shrine, ever uttered a petition 
more thoroughly heartfelt and earnest than was 
contained in those last three words. Whether 
that prayer reached the base of the Mercy-seat, 
or whether, like many petitions formed by more 
saintly lips, it was born idly away by one of the 
winds that never blow in heaven, you will know 
hereafter who have patience to read to the end. 

Thus the lady was left in possession of the 
field, whereon, to say the least of it, she had 
held her own. Yet she did not seem triumph- 
ant or victorious, as she sat there with her face 
buried in the sofa-pillow for some minutes after 
she was left alone. When she looked up again 
her eyes were wet. 

Her best friends — Laura Branccpcth for ex- 
ample — called her a cruel coquette ; yet there was 
much of softness, if not of tenderness, in her na- 
ture. That same inconsistency has been noticed 
in much more famous criminals. Mohammed’s 
cat, and Couthon’s lapdog, are matters of histo- 
ry ; and Count Fosco’s canary has always seem- 
ed to me one of the happiest touches in a very 
powerful picture. Though she had wrought so 
much harm in her time, Blanche had never with 
malace or of aforethought injured any living 
thing. Her repentance was not keen or durable 
enough to keep her from falling into fresh temp- 
tation : yet each and every one of her victims 
might have been consoled by knowing that 
Blanche’s heart wore for him a decent half- 
mourning. In one respect Mrs. Ellcrslic had 
exceptional luck. Amongst womankind she had 
enemies not a few : but men — no matter what 
wrong they had suffered at her hands — seemed 
incapable qf nourishing rancor against her ; in 
almost any company there might have been found 
champions ready and willing to buckler her good 
name against whomsoever should presume to as- 
sail it. She was really fond of her cage-birds, 
though she teased them so terribly ; and it was 


not her vanity only that suffered, when one of 
these found the use of his wings and escaped 
from bondage. 

Major Gauntlet was not an ordinary pet. Till 
within the last two months, she had liked and 
admired him more than any one she had known. 
A soldier’s daughter and a soldier’s wife — she 
was able to appreciate soldierly renown : she 
liked to think that she had at her beck and call 
one whom brave hearts were proud to follow, 
and to carry on light word-warfare with the 
man whose name carried terror with it wherever 
it was spoken along the north-western frontier 
of India. Many maids and matrons, since Una 
walked in forest-land, have found it pleasant pas- 
time to dally with the mane of a couchant lion. 
She knew that Oswald had left her not in anger, 
and that she might count on his friendship now 
and always; but she knew, too, that it could never 
be the same between them any more, and that the 
ancient intimacy — half-sportive, half-tender — 
had that day gotten its death-blow. 

When, after discreet absence, Laura Brance- 
peth returned, she found Mrs. Ellerslie looking 
so sorrowful that she could not forbear question- 
ing- . . 

“There’s nothing the matter,” Blanche said, 
with a little sob; “only I do so hate saying 
good-bye ; and that is what Oswald Gauntlet 
came here to say. He is going abroad, for I 
don’t know how long, on some stupid Commis- 
sion or another.” 

Now La Reine Gaillarde had an implicit belief 
in the dashing horse-gunner — not in matters 
martial alone — and had reckoned rather confi- 
dently on him as a counteragent on the present 
occasion. It was provoking to her that he had 
so readily beaten a retreat, and left the field clear 
for other invading forces. 

“Rather a sudden resolution, wasn’t it? It 
was only the night before last that Major Gaunt- 
let was talking to me about his summer plans ; 
and travelling on the Continent was certainly 
not one of them. I wouldn’t worry myself too 
much about saying good-bye, Blanche, if I were 
you. You’ll have to say it sooner or later, to 
more than one old friend, I fancy. It’s to be 
hoped the new ones will make you amends.” 

It was not often that Mrs. Ellerslie was at a 
loss for a reply ; but now she could frame none — 
unless a low, reproachful whisper, “Oh Queenie!” 
could be called such — and escaped to her own 
room. 

Those two were very silent during their drive. 
When they drew up under their favorite tree in 
the Mile, the least observant of her courtiers saw 
that something had ruffled the quick temper of 
La Reine Gaillarde, and the most successful of 
those who strove to engross Mrs. Ellerslic’s at- 
tention was scarcely rewarded with a languid 
smile. Whilst that especial carriage halted 
there was always a kind of circle round it ; but, 
by some strange coincidence, one familiar face 
was missing — the face of Mark Ramsay. 


CHARTER VIII. 

“And is this your last — your very last an- 
swer ?” 

Mark Ramsey spoke quite calmly, almost un- 


BREAKING A BUTTERBLY ; OR, 


2 G 

concernedly ; yet his thoughts were very bitter 
just then. He had very seldom left on the board 
the stake in any game on the winning of which 
he had thoroughly set his heart’s desire — so sel- 
dom, indeed, that nine men out of ten, on the 
strength of their evil success, would have grown 
overweening in confidence. But Mark was none 
of these. He deemed that the devil’s luck, like 
any other luck, would run itself out at last, and 
was prepared at any moment to see the intermit- 
tence set in. From personal vanity, pure and 
simple, he was as has been aforesaid, singularly 
free ; and he could calculate his own chances 
of success or failure just as coolly as if he had 
been looking over a third person’s game. All 
this only made him feel his present disappoint- 
ment more keenly. He had never been more 
sure of any one thing in his life than of Blanche 
Ellerslie’s assent whenever he should ask her to 
marry him. 

He knew perfectly well with wliat manner of 
woman he was dealing, and was prepared from 
the first to meet all the wiles of finished coquetry. 
But over the perfection of any art whatsoever 
Nature will sometimes prevail. Smiles may be 
feigned, glances be tutored, and voices be trained 
to tremble ; but Cleopatra herself, though she 
might counterfeit ablush, could not summon up 
at will the faint, tender glow of happiness which 
at the sound of a certain footstep or the glimpse 
of a certain figure, has caused ere now many ill- 
favored faces to wax for the nonce pleasant and 
comely. For such signs Ramsay’s practiced 
eyes had watched often and earnestly of late, 
and had not watched in vain. He could not ac- 
cuse himself of being precipitate now in pressing 
his suit. And what manner of answer had he 
just listened to ? It was not an absolute refusal ; 
but still less was it one of those feminine nays 
concerning which so many pleasant conceits have 
been indited both in poesy and prose. The plea 
for delay was too earnestly urged, and too stead- 
ily persisted in, to be set down to coy subterfuge. 

That delays are dangerous, none knew better 
than Mark Ramsay. If a fortress to which he 
laid siege could not be carried at once, he guessed 
that its defenses were not likely to be weakened 
by the according of a truce. Nevertheless, with- 
in that same fortress much doubt and ditficulty 
prevailed just now. 

Mrs. Ellerslie was, in all ways, of the world 
worldly; yet the veriest country girl, hovering 
on the verge of first love could not be more single- 
minded in intent than Blanche had been of late. 
Not one mercenary motive entered into her 
preference for Mark Ramsay. She might have 
landed quite as heavy, if not heavier fish ere 
now, if she had cared to work the waters where 
the big trout lie more patiently ; but she had 
wealth more than sufficient to satisfy all her 
whims ; and as yet had never been seriously 
tempted to exchange the freedom of the Allee 
dcs Veuves for any prison whatever, even if the 
walls were of jasper and the gates of wrought 
gold. As for ambition — that is another affair. 
Blanche was too thorough a woman not to savor 
triumph in holding at her discretion the “stag 
of ten,” against whom younger and fairer hun- 
tresses had emptied their quivers in vain. She 
was well aware that many matrons, who turned 
indignantly away from Mark Ramsay lingering 
at her side, would have found gracious glances 


for him lounging in their own drawing-rooms ; 
and that the pity they feigned to feel for her would 
scarce have been extended to their own daugh- 
ters, had these been exposed to like temptation ; 
she was keenly alive, too, to the delight of suc- 
cessful rivalry. But putting all these incitements 
aside, she felt for Mark Ramsay what she had 
never felt for any man alive or dead. It was 
not only a strong liking, but a growing sense of 
dependence which almost frightened her, intense- 
ly pleasant though it was. From her girlhood up- 
ward she had scoffed pitilessly at the substance of 
Love, though she had ever been coquetting with 
its shadow ; but she felt misgivings now, lest she v 
should have been over- rash in her gay defiance.' 
Yet, had the choice been given her, she would 
not have drawn back one step on the road that 
seemed to trend toward the house of bondage. 

All this being premised, it seems hard to un- 
derstand why she should hesitate and plead for 
delay when Mark asked for her hand. It was 
scarcely prudence withheld her ; but rather one 
of those presentiments that are such true proph- 
ets, though they speak more darkly than the 
Oracles, whose utterances were whispered on the 
winds of Dodona, or through the smoke of Delphi. 
All the warnings that she had put aside and tried 
to forget came back upon her now ; and she 
could not drive them away. The friends who 
had spoken those warnings might not have been 
very safe counsellors as a rule, and certainly were 
little apt to preach ; but she knew that they had 
spoken honestly for her good — ay, and not with- 
out sound reason. 

“Not fit to be trusted with the happiness of 
any woman alive.” 

How sharply she had checked Oswald Gaunt- 
let when he spoke these words ! But her heart 
heard them over again, sleeping or waking, often 
enough since. They rang in her ears like a 
church-bell, that never wearies of its message 
of truth and kindness to sinners, whether they 
will hearken or not. From the first moment 
when she looked on her suitor’s face, she had 
tried to believe that much of the ill-report con- 
cerning him was idle gossip or scandal ; yet, 
at this very moment she remembered that with-- 
out fire there is no smoke, and that creatures 
more innocent than herself — innocent as the 
children that were burned before Moloch — might 
ere now have passed through the furnace of 
Mark Ramsay’s evil passions. 

It was very true that the love he now prdffer- 
ed brought with it no shame; nevertheless, the 
gift might be fatal. On men of his stamp, vows 
are not more binding because they have been 
spoken before an altar. Spirits so hard to tame 
stand in small awe of a simple wedding-ring. 
Moreover, if the Talmud speak true, the talisman 
whereby King Solomon controlled the Djinns 
could not save him from betrayal by the fair 
Shulamite. 

Warningand presentiment availed just so much 
as to make her hesitate — no more. For her life 
she could not have spoken the words that Would 
have sent Mark Ramsay away from her forever. 
When he said, “ Is this your very last answer ?” 
she could only look up at him timidly, murmur- 
ing, 

“ You must not be angry : you must be patient. 
If you knew all I have heard, you would not 
wonder.” 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


27 


His face began to harden. 

“ Rare tales, I dare be sworn. With all the 
talent for invention that is abroad, it’s very odd 
better novels are not written nowadays. And 
do you think it is only about me that fabliaux are 
made ? I find it so much pleasanter to take peo- 
ple as I find them, instead of on hearsay; and 
so much wiser not to trouble myself with what 
happened before my time. But if one were to 
believe half one hears — Mrs. Ellerslie, as you 
arc so fond of listening to stories, I’ll tell you 
one. It’s not very sensational, but it’s true. 

“ When people told you so much about my 
past, did they tell you that some time ago I spent 
•twelve months in India ? No ? It was so, 
nevertheless. I was a poor man in those days, 
and only too thankful to be set forward on my 
road, or helped in getting at the big game. I 
had heard a good deal of Indian hospitality be- 
fore I started ; I was not prepared for half the 
kindness [ met with. With one regiment in par- 
ticular, I lived nearly three months, at free quar- 
ters — the — th Hussars, who were quartered at 
Meerut. The day before I was to leave them to 
return home, sitting alone with the Chief in his 
bungalow, I naturally offered to execute any 
commission for him or for any other comrade. 

“ ‘ Well, there’s one thing you might do.’ Colo- 
nel Neville said, but I hardly like to ask you, 
though it would please several others in the 
regiment besides me. There’s one of ours whom 
you have never seen yet, though you’ve heard 
him talked over often enough, for he’s been on 
the sick-list since you came here. It’s a very 
sad case. We liked what we saw of him' im- 
mensely, when he joined, and thought we had got 
a real acquisition ; but I don’t think he has done 
ten days’ duty since, nor dined a dozen times 
at mess. He was very shaky from the first, 
and he’s never given himself half a chance since ; 
for he does nothing but mope in his bungalow, 
smoking like a chimney, and I’m very much 
afraid, drinking to match. He don’t look fit to 
travel, and seems to hate the idea of going home ; 
but the doctor says the sea voyage is his last 
chance. He was very loth to move ; so I got his 
sick-leave without consulting him, and he starts 
to-morrow. Now, if you are not in any great 
hurry — you haven’t taken your passage yet, I 
know — i thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind 
looking after him as far as Calcutta. You’ll 
have to travel slower of course ; but otherwise 
he won’t be much trouble : he’s as gentle as a 
girl in his ways, spite of the drink.’ 

“An act of simple charity was not much re- 
turn for all the kindness I had met with there. 
So I said : and so it was settled. I did not see 
my travelling companion till I called for. him 
at his bungalow next evening. I thought I had 
seldom looked on a handsomer face, though 
death was written on it very plainly ; and I was 
quite struck by the pleasantness of his voice as 
he said good-bye to his comrades ; for every of- 
ficer of the regiment was there to see him off. 
Beyond a few sentences of commonplace courte- 
sy exchanged then, very few words passed be- 
tween us that night ; and, when we reached our 
first halting-place, he seemed so tired that I did 
not tempt him to talk. 

“ There were no railways in those days. 
Travelling was done by dawk-gharries. You trav- 
el always by night, resting, if there’s no neces- 


sity to push forward, during the heat of the day. 
I saw scarcely any thing of my travelling com- 
panion except at meals, at which he made a mere 
pretense of eating, and then betook himself to lie 
down again in his own room till it was time to 
start. He did not seem inclined to talk, but his 
manner was always winning, and he seemed 
very grateful to me for lingering with him on 
the road. Soitwentpq, till we halted on the sixth 
day at a lonely station beyond Benares. When 
he got out of his gharry, he seemed scarce able 
to walk into the dawk bungalow, and said he 
would try to sleep, for he could swallow no 
food. So I breakfasted alone, and afterward be- 
gan to doze. I woke up with a start — feeling 
sure that there was some one in the room near 
me, though I had not heard the door open. 

“ My companion stood there, resting his hand 
on the table and swaying to and fro. The sun- 
blinds were closely drawn, and the room was 
very dark; yet I could see his face — deathly 
white — and the gleaming of his great black eyes. 
From certain significant words dropped by my 
bearer I guessed what his habits had been 
throughout the journey, and delirium tremens 
was the first idea that crossed my mind. 

“ ‘ I’m not drunk !’ he said, as though he read 
my thoughts ; ‘ I’m dying, that’s all ; and I — 
I daren’t die alone.’ 

“ I sprang up just in time to catch him in my 
arms as he stumbled forward, and I laid him 
down on my couch, from which he never stirred 
again. There are times, I believe, when a man 
must speak — even to a dog or his worst enemy 
— rather than keep silence altogether. So it 
came to pass that I, a mere chance acquaintance, 
heard his last confession, spoken slowly and pain- 
fully in the lulls between the heart-spasms. I 
dare say the story is very dry and old ; but I nev- 
er listened to one quite like it, and it made rath- 
er a strong impression on me. I remember it 
almost word for word. 

“ He had served, till he got his lieutenancy, 
in a heavy-dragoon regiment ; and during those 
three years met a woman who — unwittingly as 
I thoroughly believe — turned all the current of 
his life awry. Neither did he accuse her. He 
accused only his own folly, for having been so 
bewitched. 

“ ‘ She was only in play,’ he said ; ‘and she 
could not guess that it wasplaying the devil with 
me. She would not have soiled the tip of her 
little finger for my sake ; and there’s no sin or 
shame on earth that I would not have worked 
out at the beck of that same finger. I never 
told her as much. I don’t think I ever said a 
syllable to her that her husband might not 
have listened to. And this is how we parted. 
I was going on leave to see after some of my 
mother’s affairs, that ought to. have been attend- 
ed to long before : I should not have gone^even 
then, but she knew how things stood with me, 
and would have it so. 

“ ‘To reward me for being “ dutiful and obe- 
dient,” I was to have as many waltzes as I chose 
at a dance that came off at barracks that night. 
I had heaps to do, but I managed to get there 
just as the first quadrille was over. She was 
sitting in an out-of-the-way corner, talking very 
earnestly to a man whom I had never seen be- 
fore, though I had heard his name often enough ; 
for, to give him his due, I believe there’s no bet- 


28 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


ter soldier. I felt hot and savage, and then sick 
at heart, before she spoke. 

“ ‘ I wasn’t to be furious. When she promised 
me those unlimited waltzes, she had reckoned 
without Oswald Gauntlet, who was a very, very 
old friend ; and old friends were so exacting. 
He had travelled a long way to be there that 
night ; and she had been weak enough to prom- 
ise him the first waltz and galop at all events. 
Apres, on verrait. 

“ ‘ I felt very dizzy just then ; yet not so diz- 
zy, but, as I turned away, I heard him say, with 
a half-laugh: 

“ ‘ “ It’s hard lines on him too, poor boy.” 

“ ‘ And she laughed too, as she answered : 

‘ “ You were always fond of children, Oswald 
— fonder than I am. Shall I call back my pret- 
ty page ?” 

“ ‘Those were the last words I ever heard her 
speak ; and I never saw her face again. I got 
away to my quarters somehow, and I got through 
the night — well, very much, as I have got through 
most nights since, and the first thing I did after 
getting to London was to arrange an exchange 
into the — th Hussars. I never went near the 
old regiment again, and I never answered the 
letter she wrote when she heard I was going to 
India, though I did answer the postscript her 
husband added. He was a rough old martinet, 
but he had been really kind to me. I thought 
I should get rid of her by coming out here, but 
I haven’t. The drink that has killed me has 
only driven her away for an hour or two. And 
now — Well, there’s my mother, who has pet- 
ted me since I was born, and who will break her 
heart when she hears of this. If one of the two 
could come and sit beside me now, it would not 
be the mother I’d choose. Look here : you’re a 
real good fellow, from all I have heard ’ (I am 
speaking my rote, you know, Mrs. Ellerslie); 
‘ and I know I can trust you. You’ll see tins 
buried with me ; and not let any of those black 
devils handle it.’ 

“He drew out from his breast a broad gold 
locket in a double case. There was a photograph 
in the front; at the back a tiny scrap of paper 
with the word ‘Dear.’ 

“ ‘ It’s very absurd, ’ he went on, ‘very childish, 
she would have called it. I cut it out of a com- 
mon invitation-note : I thought it looked so well 
in her handwriting. Now you shall hear her 
name.’ 

“He drew my car down close to his mouth. 

“ ‘If ever you get a chance, I should like 
you to tell her that I said “ God bless her !” — 
now.’ 

“ Those were very nearly the last words he 
spoke intelligibly ; for the spasms came on sharp- 
er and stronger till, half an hour after, he was 
dead. Mrs. Ellerslie, it’s just possible you’ve 
guessed already that this man’s name was Har- 
ry Armar ; and whose face was in his locket ; 
and why I have broken no confidence in telling 
you this story.” 

Guessed it? Yes; she had done that long 
ago. Eyes less keen than those that looked down 
on her might have read so much, even before 
she started at the mention of Oswald Gauntlet’s 
name. She had often felt mild penitence and 
self-reproach, but real remorse never till now. 
For a moment she was as much shocked and 
startled as if she had been brought suddenly into 


a chamber where a corpse was lying. She re- 
membered the brave, handsome boy so well ; re- 
membered how she had laughed that night at 
what she deemed his pettish anger; how sure 
she had made of his coming back to her lure; 
how surprised she had been when she heard of 
his exchange to India ; how vexed when no an- 
swer came to her farewell letter; how grieved 
when she heard of his death. How different all 
would have been, had she known then what she 
knew now ! She bowed her head in silence for 
a minute or two ; and when she spoke it was 
low and brokenly. 

“I have done deadly harm ; though I never 
meant it, God knows. But I scarcely deserve 
that the pain should come from you. Could you 
not have told me this sooner, or — later?” 

“I never thought of punishment,” Mark an- 
swered, “for I never thought that you deserved 
it. Perhaps I am not a fair judge; but you’ll 
remember, I believed from the first all the harm 
had been done unwittingly. You were amusing 
yourself as hundreds of women do : the only pity 
was, that you found out a little too late with 
what a brittle toy you were playing. I should 
fancy poor Armar was not organized to stand 
the wear and tear of every-day life long, even if 
he bad never crossed your path. Only think 
what gaps would be made in society if men in 
general, on finding out they had mistaken jest 
for earnest, were to flee to the uttermost parts 
of the earth, to drown their disappointment in 
strong drink ! I told you all this partly because 
I was in a fashion bound to tell you some time 
or other; but more because I wished you to un- 
derstand that I ask no more than I offer when I 
ask you to let the past bury its dead. For now — 
with this story, which some good-natured friends 
would work up into a ‘sensation,’ fresh from 
my lips — I ask you, once more, to cast in your 
lot with mine.’ 

For the last few minutcSv^Mark had kept his 
eyes averted from his companion’s face, as though 
willing to give her time to recover herself. Be- 
fore he looked at her again, he knew that he had 
won the day. As he finished speaking, a soft 
hand crept into his palm, and was content to be 
clasped ; and, as their lips met, Blanche Ellerslie 
knew of a surety that she had found her heart 
at last. 

When a woman of her experience — though 
she was comparatively young in years — makes 
this discovery so late, it is by no means certain 
that it is for her happiness it is made. It is the 
old story of the peasant suddenly made rich by 
lighting on a treasure hidden in the ground that 
he has delved for years. There is great joy at 
first over the new-gotten wealth, but the cares and 
fears of guardianship follow soon ; and there 
will be heard never more the light-hearted lilt- 
ing and ready laughter that made the cottage 
merry when it held nothing that thieves would 
break through to steal. 

Theirs was a strange wooing — strange even 
for these days, wherein sentiment does not great- 
ly abound. Scarcely a word of tenderness pass- 
ed between the two before they were irrevocably 
plighted ; and such as believe in omens might 
have noted, as an evil augury, that sharp stings 
of remorse were tingling in Blanche Ellerslie’s 
breast when she betrothed herself to a man who 
brought her a message from the dead. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


29 


CHAPTER IX. 

Laura Brancepeth could not affect surprise 
at the news that greeted her when she came in 
from driving. Nevertheless, she was exceed- 
ing wroth ; and, as was her wont on such occa- 
sions, spoke somewhat unadvisedly with her lips. 
Blanche was too happy just then to quarrel with 
any one — much less with a real friend. The 
sharp words only made her smile; and she an- 
swered as serenely as if she had received the 
warmest congratulations. 

“I’m very sorry, dear. You’d have liked me 
to have married some great church dignitary, 
I do believe. But I don’t know any bachelor 
bishop ; and, though the Dean of Torrcaster is a 
widower, I could not have become bone of his 
bone even to please you. For my part, I think 
it’s better for like to match with like — sinners 
with sinners, and saints with saints. Besides, 
Mark and I have sown all our wild oats, and we 
shall do nothing henceforth but quiet family 
gardening.” 

Laura Brancepeth had the outline in her mind 
of a retort at once scriptural and severe, relating 
to seeds and tares, and reaping the whirlwind ; 
but she got her metaphor into a tangle, and so 
gave it up, contenting herself with observing, 
that “she didn’t believe insudden conversions, but 
that she was tired of preaching, and only hoped 
the other would not one day have cause to re- 
member her sermons when it was too late.” 

Mrs. Ellerslie’s face put on the carressing look 
that women, no less than men, found it hard to 
withstand. 

“ Too late to warn, perhaps,” she said; “ but, 
Queenie, not too late to wish me happy. No one 
would be sorrier than you, I know, if your proph- 
ecies were by any chance to come true.” 

Lady Laura’s gusts of temper never lasted 
long, she stooped and kissed her friend very af- 
fectionately. 

“I do wish you happy, dear, from the bottom 
of my heart ; and, if you should ever come to 
confess to me that it was otherwise, I promise 
you that I won’t answer with — ‘ I told you how 
it would be.’ ” 

La Reine Gaillarde never could bear malice, 
for having been worsted in fair fight. She had 
done her very uttermost to thwart and counter- 
mine Mark Ramsay ; but, now that he had final- 
ly prevailed, she was as ready to shake hands as 
if she had been throughout his warmest partisan. 
When they next met, she greeted him quite cor- 
dially ; making him free of her house at all ca- 
nonical hours, and entered with great energy and 
good-will into all preparations for Blanche’s 
marriage. 

There was much lawyer’s work to be done ; 
for Mrs. Ellerslie was by no means a portionless 
bride, and Mark’s liberality in point of settle- 
ments needed rather the check than the spur. 
As a poor man he had always been free-handed 
to a fault, and wealth had not made him miser- 
ly, or even careful to count the cost. In all this, 
beyond a few timid objections to excess of gen- 
erosity, Blanche took little concern ; but when 
she was asked to choose her trustee, she named 
without hesitation, a cousin of the late Colonel 
Ellerslie, and principal executor of his will. 
She had seen comparatively little of George An- 
struther ; but she knew that her husband trust- 


ed implicitly in his judgment and honor, and 
more than once had sought his advice and as- 
sistance. Since she had become a widow, she 
had always found him ready and willing to as- 
sist her in business matters, of which she was 
ignorant as a child. 

Mr. Ansthuther had gone out when compara- 
tively young to a lucrative appointment in India ; 
interest was more powerful then than it is now- 
adays, and the cadets of certain families — un- 
less actually deficient in ability — had a kind of 
hereditary claim to rapid advancement. lie was 
a just and upright man, and would have scorn- 
ed to exact a doit more than his due either from 
rich or poor ; but saving withal, with a shrewd, 
sagacious eye for all legitimate chances of increas- 
ing his store, and well able to sift the chaff from 
the grain in the tempting speculations that even 
then were rife in the East. So it was not won- 
derful that at the age of forty-five — some six 
years before the opening of this story — he was 
enabled to retire with a fortune that, added to 
his pension, was affluence to one of his tastes. 

From the morning when George Anstruther 
sailed out of the Downs to the evening when he 
saw the points of this Needles glimmering white 
through the twilight, he had never once set foot 
on English ground. Absence of less than a 
quarter of a century will make most men feel 
aliens at first in their birth-land ; with some, 
this feeling of estrangement never quite wears 
away. So it was with Austruther. For many 
years he had lived almost entirely alone ; for 
his station, though an important one, lay far up 
the country out of the line of traffic ; and the 
scanty European society that lay within his 
reach had rather repelled than attracted him. 
Solitude had not made him morose or eccentric, 
but it had fostered the shy reserve natural to him. 
His habits were too set now to be altered great- 
ly by change of clime. 

His living relatives were singularly few, and 
even with the nearest of these he had corre- 
ponded but rarely ; so, when he landed in Eng- 
land there were none who would have travelled 
far to bid him “Welcome home.” Anstruther 
did not feel this isolation, as many would have 
done. Perhaps he rather rejoiced that absence 
of any family ties left him free to live after 
his own fashion without seeming ungracious to- 
ward his kinsfolk. He paid a few duty-visits in 
the first few months after he landed ; but these 
were made as brief as possible, and were never 
repeated. Before the year was out he had es- 
tablished himself in a house on the north-west- 
ern border of St. John’s Wood — very modest in 
appearance, but sufficiently capacious to hold him 
and his belongings, and with ground enough 
around it to prevent the possibility of being hem- - 
med in or overlooked. Other reasons besides a 
fancy for seclusion guided Anstruther in the 
choice of a dwelling. For some time past chem- 
istry had been his favorite pursuit, and he had 
no mind that any timid or sensitive neighbor 
should take out an “injunction” against his 
laboratory. 

Most of his Indian contemporaries — less lucky 
or less prudent than himself — were still toiling 
on out yonder ; so in London he found few per- 
sonal friends. Nevertheless, he became a mem- 
ber without difficulty of the two clubs into which 
he sought admission — the Planet and the Orion. 


so 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


At one of these he was sure of a faultless dinner ; 
at the other, sure of finding scope for the dis- 
play of his rare skill at whist and piquet. Be- 
yond some half-dozen fevers, that had left no 
seeds of disease behind, he had never known what 
sickness meant ; but his daily routine was as reg- 
ular as if he had been condemned to live by rule. 

Winter or summer, he breakfasted always at 
nine ; then came a huge cheroot, and the read- 
ing of the morning paper ; then work in the lab- 
oratory till about noon. Then, no matter what 
the weather might be outside, he went out on 
horseback for two hours, neither less nor more ; 
never through the streets or in the Row, but 
straight out into the country — not dawdling 
along on a leisurely constitutional, but riding 
quite as sharply as was good for the legs and 
wind of the cattle that carried him. He gave 
great prices for his hacks, and was too good a 
judge not to get his money’s worth. When he 
came in, he changed his dress completely — sol- 
itude had not made him the least of a sloven — 
and drove down to the Orion, where he played 
whist or piquet till seven. After dressing again, 
unless there were special reasons for the contrary, 
he dined at the Planet. Though he never offer- 
ed to join any other party, he seldom dined alone. 
There was generally some one ready to take the 
second place at the corner-table, to which, ere 
long, he acquired a prescriptive right ; for it 
was known in the Planet that Mr. Anstruther’s 
talent in composing a menu — simple or elaborate 
— was exceptional, and that he could talk sensi- 
bly on most subjects, without speaking ex cath- 
edra. 

“ Not half a bad fellow, when you know him ; 
and devilish shrewd, too, but wants drawing out ” 
— was the club verdict — a pretty just one, as;such 
verdicts commonly are. 

After his black coffee he smoked one digestive 
cheroot — very slowly, and in silence, for choice 
— and then betook himself to the Orion again, 
where his brougham was always waiting at mid- 
night. After that hour he could not be tempted 
to begin a rubber. 

Though his acquaintance without tlie walls of 
the Planet and the Orion was so confined, when 
he was permanently established in town, invita- 
tions began to drop in ; but these were one and 
all courteously declined ; and when it became 
known that there was no exception whatever to 
Mr. Anstruther’s rule of never dining out and 
never entertaining at home, the Amphitryons 
forebore to disquiet him. Only one or two very 
intimate friends could tempt him sometimes to 
slightly vary the even tenor of his life ; chiefest 
among these was Walter Ellerslie. These two 
were not only kinsmen, but had seen much of 
each other in India. Each had learned long 
ago to value aright the sterling qualities of the 
other’s nature — disguised in the one case under 
shy, cold reserve ; in the other, by a curt, incisive 
manner, that at its best was any thing but 
courtly. 

Colonel Ellerslie was passionately fond of 
whist, apd a hopelessly bad player. His errors 
sprang not from rashness or want of thought, 
but from a combination, peculiar to himself, of 
a set of rules, of which all that were not absurd 
were more or less false in principle. He was 
one of the most intrepid men alive ; and not 
only in his profession, but in ordinary life, acted, 


whether for right or wrong, with singular prompt- 
ness and decision. When he sat down to the 
whist-table, the whole nature of the man seemed 
changed. He became timorous and vacillating 
to a degree; avaricious of his trumps in season 
and out of season ; and leading from his weak- 
est suit, rather than from ace queen. He would 
certainly have chosen the “happy dispatch” 
of throwing up his hand, rather than lead up to 
an exposed honor. 

Some years ago there flourished in the shires 
anotable sportsman, from whom it was said many 
useful hints had been gained by such as had got 
a bad start, and wished to know which way the 
hounds were turning. They watched the line 
that he was. taking, and then took exactly the 
opposite one : and nine times out of ten were 
right. So a beginner at whist might have great- 
ly improved himself by watching Colonel El- 
lerslie’s play whenever there was the shadow of 
a doubt, and thenceforth noting that card as the 
very last to be produced under the circumstances. 
Even had he been likely to take schooling pa- 
tiently, he was so palpably incorrigible, that few 
would have wasted reproach on him, much less 
argument. He lived and died in happy uncon- 
sciousness of the blundering that made him a 
very proverb amongst those who suffered there- 
by. The Colonel had a great idea of playing 
“in good company,” as he termed it — in no wise 
alluding to the social position of those who made 
up the party, but to their celebrity at the game. 
He was not a member of the Orion ; for, not be- 
ing a rich man, he was too prudent to pit him- 
self constantly against men by whom he felt he 
was overmatched ; but nothing pleased him so 
much as an occasional rubber there. If he lost 
his money, as was generally the case, he grudged 
it not a whit ; if he won, were it ever so little, 
he went home — prouder than Diomedes bringing 
back from the Trojan camp the fatal horses of 
Rhesus. 

When Ellerslie first appeared at the Orion, it 
was as Anstruther’s guest ; and there was gregt 
marvel that he, who would often wait for an hour 
or more rather than cut in at a second-rate ta- 
ble, should have brought in a man to whom the 
veriest neophyte in the club could have given 
one point in ten. But Anstruther only shrugged 
his shoulders with a quiet smile — it was his way 
of declining discussion — whenever the anomaly 
was hinted to him, and would sit patiently for a 
Whole evening conniving, so to speak, at the oth- 
er’s blunders ; never once at the most flagrant 
of these lifting his shaggy gray eyebrows, that 
arched themselves readily enough over much 
more venial transgressions. Others too, less dis- 
posed to indulgence, deemed it better to suffer 
in silence ; partly out of deference to Ellerslie’s 
entertainer, partly because it seemed scarce safe 
to vent spleen, however justly provoked, on the 
grim old martialist. 

Philosophers and politicians have ceased long 
ago to write treatises JDe Arnicitia ; and even 
Corinna finds graver or more passionate use for 
her pen than inditing sonnets to a female favor- 
ite. The romance of sentiment rarely survives 
our school-days ; and surely these gray-beards 
had cast such follies far behind them. Yet I 
doubt if sincerer sacrifice ever was laid on the 
altar of Friendship than the one just recorded. 

For his hospitality George Anstruther never 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


would take payment in kind. When his cous- 
in’s regiment was quartered within easy distance 
of London, he could not be induced to visit the 
pretty villa in which the other had set up his 
household gods. Before she became a widow, 
he had only met Blanche Ellerslie twice — each 
time by accident. The duties of executorship 
brought them more together of necessity. Then, 
despite his reserve and shyness, Anstruther show- 
ed himself so thoroughly kind and considerate, 
that Blanche conceived a great liking for and 
confidence in him ; and thenceforth did not scru- 
ple to rest entirely on his advice in any impor- 
tant matters of business. These consultations 
were always made by letter. 



CHAPTER X. 

On a certain bright May morning Mr. Ans- 
truther walked in his garden, smoking slowly his 
after-breakfast cheroot. When he walked his 
step was planted firmly, never springily ; and all 
his movements were marked by a kind of mechan- 
ical slowness. Elis frame, naturally tall and 
spare, had grown gaunt and angular under twen- 
ty-five years’ endurance of Eastern dust and sun. 
His features were roughly cast, but rather regu- 
lar than otherwise ; and though the cheeks and 
forehead were crossed by myriads of intersecting 
lines, none were as yet very deeply grained. His 
strong short hair, carefully-trimmed whiskers, 
and thick eyebrows, were all of the same dark- 
grizzled hue ; and his eyes, of a paler gray, were 
steady without being searching, with a kind of 
look in them of judicial authority — not unbecom- 
ing one who had spent the better part of his life 
in winnowing grains of truth out of sheaves of 
falsehood, and from whose decision there had sel- 
dom been appeal. His feet were large and clum- 
sy, but his long hands were well-shaped, and the 
nails carefully trimmed, though dark specks here 
and there betrayed the nature of his favorite pur- 
suit. 

Neither in face nor figure was there a single 
point on which the eye of an artist or of a wo- 
man would have loved to linger ; yet, in a crowd 
of strangers, you would probably have singled out 
George Anstruther as worthy of a second glance. 
You would have guessed that you looked upon a 
man whose strength lay rather in patient pertinac- 
ity, than in daring genius or passionate impulse 
— a man not easily moved by avarice or ambition, 
but yet who would seldom fail to work out his own 
end by his own means — aman self-respecting, if 
not entirely God-fearing ; who might possibly be 
goaded or beguiled into the commission of some 
great crime, but scarcely into any action merely 
base or mean — a man who would pass safely 
through toils and temptations in which others 
would surely be entangled, and over whom the 
Lust of the Eye and the Pride of Life had as yet 
seldom prevailed. 

It was a morning to make one forget the many 
sins of English spring. A light breeze from the 
north-west came, without a taint by smoke or 
miasma, straight from green pasture-grounds, 
and pink orchards, and russest fallows. A morn- 
ing that would have braced the nerves of a 
hypochondriac better than all the tonics of the 
faculty — a morning that might have tempted a 


31 

would-be suicide to give the world another chance 
of making him amends for intolerable wrong. 

Staid and sober as Anstruther was, he was by 
no means inaccessible to weather influences ; and 
he was very happy, after his own fashion, as he 
paced to and fro, halting often to savor the fra- 
grance of his trim parterres, with which min- 
gled not unpleasantly the keener scent of the 
Manilla weed. He was no gambler, in the com- 
mon sense of the word ; for his stakes both at 
whist and at piquet were invariably such as could 
scarcely have damaged the fortune of a much 
poorer man ; but he felt success or defeat none the 
less keenly ; and the fact of the previous night 
having been an exceptionally good one, may have 
contributed not a little to the pleasantness of his 
humor. The tenacity of his memory was some- 
thing marvellous ; and he could carry more than 
one whist-problem in his brain quite easily. He 
was working out rather a difficult case which had 
occurred on the previous night, and had just de- 
termined that his own and his partner’s cards 
could not possibly have been played to more ad- 
vantage, when his servant brought him out a note, 
saying that the bearer waited for an answer. 

It was a dainty-looking missive. At the first 
glance Anstruther saw that it was a woman’s, 
and the second told him whence it came. When 
he was alone, he sat down and opened the envel- 
ope deliberately, taking care not to destroy the 
intricate monogram of violet and silver. Con- 
sidering the brevity of the note, it took strangely 
long in perusal. 

Therein, for the first time, Anstruther was 
made aware of Mrs. Ellerslie’s matrimonial in- 
tentions, and further entreated, if he was not 
weary of doing her kindness, to take charge 
thenceforth of her separate interests as her trus- 
tee. 

“ But it is so much easier to talk than to write 
about some things,” Blanche concluded ; “ and 
if you would only name an hour that would suit 
you best for calling here, I would be quite sure 
to be at home to you, and to no one else.” 

Then she signed herself “ affectionately ” in- 
stead of “truly,” as heretofore. 

For a space that would have sufficed to get 
every word written on two pages by heart, George 
Anstruther sat musing ; and, as he mused, he 
toyed with the delicate note, passing Lt to and 
fro over his lips and nostrils, as though it had 
been a fresh May-blossom. 

Mrs. Ellerslie’s worst enemy would not have 
imputed to her such a vulgai’ism as using scent- 
ed paper, and George Anstruther was little wont 
to give imagination the rein ; nevertheless, he 
seemed to savor a suspicion of perfume. Other 
roses, besides those of Gueldres and Provence 
have been known to impart fragrance to the 
meanest object they brush with their petals — a 
fragrance the like of which exhales not from any 
herb or flower of earth, the like of which no cun- 
ning of chemistry can imitate — a fragrance that 
will endure after those same roses are withered 
and dead. As Anstruther mused, his bushy gray 
brows were drawn together, and the lines on his 
forehead grew deeper and deeper. 

“Married again!” so his thoughts ran; “a 
risk surely for one of her. stamp; she’s scarce 
likely to have her old luck over again. And to 
Mark Ramsay too ! There’s more than risk 
there. It’s the same man, of course, I heard so 


32 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


much of in India. lie was not more than a 
twelvemonth out, and was keen enough after the 
big game ; but he found leisure enough to do 
harm that could not be undone in a lifetime. 
Didn’t he come into a great fortune a year or so 
ago ? Not that that would have any thing to do 
with it*: she has more than she wants already. 
Well, I'm not her guardian, or even a very old 
friend ; so there’s no reason for my concerning 
myself with her future, beyond looking after set- 
tlements and investments. Of course I’m always 
ready to do as much, for poor old Walter’s sake. 
I’ll write and tell her so, and call this afternoon. 
Congratulation-visits are not much in my line; 
I’d just as soon get this one over.” 

When he had written a few lines in reply, the 
hour at which he was wont to betake himself to 
his laboratory was past ; but he went out into the 
garden again, muttering, while he lighted a fresh 
cheroot. 

“No use attempting to work; it’s a broken 
day.” 

A forenoon passed in idleness, was not the only 
infraction of the methodical habits which had be- 
come ingrained in Anstruther’s nature. He had 
long been accustomed to destroy every letter that 
he received so soon as it was answered ; but 
Blanche’s note, instead of finding its way to the 
waste-basket, was dropped into a drawer in the 
writing-table, the key of which was always turn- 
ed. The circumstance was trifling in itself ; yet 
a physiologist might have found ominous signifi- 
cance therein. When a clock, that for years has 
not varied a second, begins all at once, with- 
out any assigned reason, to indulge in ever so 
slight vagaries, it is a chance if any horolo- 
ger will make it thenceforth keep quite correct 
time. 

Whether Mrs. Ellerslie desired to show grati- 
tude to her trusty counsellor for his past services, 
or whether she desired still further to secure his 
future fidelity, or whether she was prompted by 
the mischievous devil of coquetry that had been 
her familiar so long — is a question not worth dis- 
cussing. All these motives — the last for choice 
— may have influenced her that afternoon. 

La Reine Gaillarde was once heard to sav, 
that Blanche would flirt with a baby in arms 
rather than not flirt at all ; and truly her conduct 
on certain occasions — like the present one, for 
instance — made the imputation seem not un- 
founded. A more unpromising subject for cap- 
tivation than George Anstruther could scarcely 
be imagined. She had long had great respect 
for his judgment, and confidence in his honor, 
and felt grateful to her late husband for having 
bequeathed to her so useful an ally. Neverthe- 
less, she had always looked on him in a sort of 
professional light, and seldom thought of him ex- 
cept in connection with business of some kind. 
It was on business he came to speak now — ay, 
more than that, on business relating to her own 
second marriage. 

Anstruther, to do him justice, after offering 
his brief good wishes, seemed disposed to keep 
the conversation on a correctly formal footing. 
It was not his fault that it assumed gradually a 
quasi-cousinly tone. It was not his fault if, 
whilst deeds were being consulted and vouchers 
verified, Mrs. Ellerslie, instead of sitting deco- 
rously at the table over against her adviser, 
chose to adopt a posture befitting a pupil of Ga- 


maliel. Even that venerable rabbi might have 
found it hard to meet, quite unmoved, such confi- 
ding upward glances. George Anstruther was 
neither stock nor stone. He was originally, 
perhaps, not colder of constitution than his fel- 
lows ; but the secluded life on which he entered 
at a very early age, added to a shy reserve in- 
creasing with his years, had kept him to a great 
extent clear of temptation : he was continent 
rather by force of habit than for conscience’ sake. 
He had mixed so seldom in society, from youth 
upward until now, that a woman’s voice speaking 
low and sweetly was in his ears like the sound 
of some strange unearthly music ; and he felt 
like one scanning the alphabet of an unknown 
language, as he looked down into Blanche El- 
lerslie’s eyes. 

Soon his thoughts began to wander from dry 
business details, and to dwell on such trifles as 
the fashion of a skirt or the hue of a trimming. 
He wondered whether any two colors on earth 
could blend so harmoniously as lilac and white, 
or were so fitting to be twined in bright brown 
hair. He was not unconscious of the growing 
weakness, and strove to shake it off with inward 
self-contempt ; but it fared with him as with the 
victims of witchcraft in old time, who never could 
quite complete the cross-sign that would have 
set them free. And so the weaving of the spell 
went on. He became so absent at last that 
Blanche noticed it. 

“You have got quite tired over these dreadful 
papers. It’s such a shame of me to give you so 
much trouble. Shall we put them all away till 
another day ?” 

As she spoke she laid her fingers lightly on his 
wrist. If a spirit had touched him in his sleep, 
Anstruther could scarcely have started more 
violently. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “but I was 
really thinking of things concerning you, though 
not .exactly of your settlements. I am not tired 
in the least, and these papers are very simple. 

1 believe I quite understand what has to be done, 
and I don't know that I shall have to trouble 
ybu much more about this business.” 

“ But you’ll come again, and soon ?” she said. 
“Do you never mean to visit me except as my 
trustee ?” 

Before Anstruther could reply the door open- 
ed slowly. The Brancepeths’ butler was an elder 
of infinite discretion. Incapable of hurrying 
himself, he was not less indulgent to his superiors 
than to his inferiors, and far too discreet to make 
sudden irruptions on a tete-a-tete , howsoever In- 
nocent in outward seeming. He came now to 
inquire whether it was Mrs. Ellerslie’s pleasure 
to receive Mr. Ramsay. Mr. Ramsay had heard 
she was engaged, and would detain her for a 
few minutes only. The lady did not stir from 
where she sat, but glanced up at her companion 
rather doubtfully. 

. “I meant this afternoon to be all yours, and 
I mean it still. If you don't mind my leaving 
you for a very little while, I'll go down and give 
Mark his audience. I shall be back before you 
have finished looking through my photograph- 
book.” 

Anstruther rose up hastily. 

“Don’t think of such a thing. You arc only 
too kind ; but I really must leave you, now that 
our business-talk is done. I had no idea how 


33 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


late it was, and I have one or two engagements 
that I can not break.” 

She pouted a little, as if half loth to be gain- 
said. 

“You know best, of course. I didn’t mean 
to be exacting, but at least you’ll see Mark before 
you go ? I should not like to lose this oppor- 
tunity of making you acquainted.” 

It would have needed a very keen observer to 
detect the shade of coldness and constraint in 
Anstruther’s acquiescence ; and the slight form- 
ality of manner afterward, during the interchange 
of the few courteous commonplaces with Ram- 
say, might be fairly set down to constitutional 
shyness. 

“ A quaint creature,” Mark observed, as soon 
as the door had fairly closed behind Anstruther ; 
“ I have seen the very image of him in some 
old picture or another — all ! I remember now 
— it’s the faithful steward in Hogarth’s Marriage 
a la mode ; only this one wears whiskers and no 
wig. I hope he’ll never have reason to hold up 
his hands at our extravagance, Bianchetta.” 

“Don’t laugh at him,” she said gravely. 
“You would not, if you knew how thoroughly 
kind and useful he has always shown himself to 
me, though I never had the grace to thank him 
for it properly before to-day.” 

“ I don’t laugh at him. Lawyers who under- 
stand their business, and work without fees, are 
too rare to be lightly entreated. I would not 
have his manner thawed for the world. If it 
were a shade more genial, it would not suit a 
model trustee.” 

She shook her head reprovingly, smiling nev- 
ertheless ; and, five minutes later, they were 
speaking of matters with which conve3’ancing 
had little enough to do. 

Whatever were the engagements for that after- 
noon that George Anstruther could not break, 
he seemed to have forgotten them before he 
left Craven Square far behind him. * Instead of 
turning his steps toward either of his clubs, or 
toward any frequented thoroughfare, he walked 
slowly away northward, through the Regent’s 
Park, to the gardens of the Botanical Society, 
of which he had been some time a fellow. The 
grounds were almost empty ; and the solitary 
bench that he selected lay far out of the track of 
the few loungers who wandered hither and thith- 
er, mostly in pairs. Minutes passed into hours, 
and still Anstruther sat a-musing, haunted by 
the echo of a voice, by the shadow of a face, and, 
most of all, by the memory of a look — the look 
with which Blanche Ellerslie, before she spoke 
ever a word, had greeted Mark Ramsay. 

The names of Ilafiz and Firduzi are strange 
to many ; but we all have heard or read of the 
eloquence of Eastern eyes. They gleam not less 
lustrously, be sure, on the banks of Indus or 
Ganges, than beside the waters of Shiraz. No 
man could have dwelt for a quarter of a century, 
with almost autocratic power, in a remote Indian 
district, without having chances enough of study- 
ing such language. Anstruther had seen eyes, 
compared with which Blanche Ellerslie’s might 
seem dull, melting in entreaty, sparkling in prov- 
ocation, and languishing sometimes in passion 
not wholly venal ; but such a look as he had 
watched to-day — a look in which there was none 
of the guile of coquette or courtesan, but only 
the frank confession of a woman’s love — he had 

C 


never seen before. He felt somewhat despond- 
ent as he thought that he had spent two- 
thirds of the span of human life without ever 
winning such a one for himself; and that to dream 
of winning such a one now would be the very 
madness of vanity. 

His reverie was not rose-colored, yet it cost 
him a painful effort to break it. He forced 
himself back into the groove of his usual habits 
that evening, but the chef of the Planet failed 
for once to please his palate ; and, in the first 
rubber that he played at the Orion, if his partner 
had not been one of those irrational loyalists 
who think that the King can do no wrong, ex- 
ception might more than once have been taken 
to his play. 

«> 

CHAPTER XI. 

On that same forenoon, one of the opening 
scene in another drama was being enacted in 
another garden — the garden of Kensington, to 
wit. What a many secrets have been overheard 
by those ancient elms, since Hcneago Finch built 
the boundary-fence of his pleasaunce! Could 
their experience be set forth for the behoof of 
modern lovers, would they be apt, I wonder, to 
encourage or to warn ? If they said , 4 4 Forbear !” 
the word would be whispered very timidly, be 
sure, on such a morning as this. 

In the Hamadryad there was ever a touch of 
human weakness, that the daughters of Oceanus 
would have spurned, and from which the Naiads 
and Oreads were free. She was not immortal, 
you know ; her fragile life might any day be cut 
short by the woodman’s axe, withered by long 
unseasonable frosts, or blasted bv cruel lightning. 
Some of the saddest and tenderest of ancient le- 
gends are those which tell of the sorrows of 
these poor nymphs, for whom no place was found 
on Olympus, and whom the greater gods seldom 
deigned to notice, unless it was to work them 
woe. So it was but natural that they should 
sympathize with the hopes and fears of mortals ; 
and that the favorite spots for love-trysts, since 
the trees budded in Eden, should have been found 
in forest land. 

Mythology, in these practical days, is chiefly 
for the use of schools ; and if any of those who 
loitered in Kensington Gardens that forenoon 
thought of such old-world fables, it was probably 
such an one as that sallow, gray-bearded man 
yonder — sitting apart and alone, seldom lifting 
his eyes from a dingy volume in antique binding 
— a bibliopole most likely, anxious to ascertain 
whether his purchase of yesterday was a verita- 
ble Elzevir or no. No such fancies, you might 
be sworn, crossed the brain of either of the pair 
with whom we are now concerned. 

Horace Kendall was first at the trysting-place, 
as in duty bound. In the pleasant shadowy nook 
where he sat, any idler would have been content 
to lounge an hour away without such special ob- 
ject as a meeting with Nina Marston. But, be- 
fore ten minutes of solitary expectation were 
gone, Kendall evidently began to think himself 
ill-used, and a victim either of circumstances or 
caprice. His face — handsome enough in its own 
peculiar style — was something like a flashily- 
furnished room, that must be well lighted up to 
be attractive. Just now, with peevish fretfulness 


3 * 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


upon it, it was certainly rather the reverse of 
fascinating. He was chewing a second cigarette 
rather viciously between his teeth, when he saw 
Nina Marston approaching. 

Few people would have called Nina beautiful — 
she had not enough regularity of feature or bril- 
liancy of complexion for such a distinction — but 
fewer still would have denied that she looked 
wonderfully piquante and pretty, sweeping over 
the grass with the rapid grace inherited from her 
Spanish ancestry ; whilst stray gleams of sun- 
light flickered on the ripples of her rich black 
hair — scarcely concealed by the excuse for a bon- 
net matching her dress of misty blue. Even 
Kendall did her that much justice ; and his brow 
cleared involuntarily as he rose to greet her, 
though his first words were querulous. 

“I began to think you were never coming.” 

“That is so like a man,” Nina answered — “a 
man who has nothing to do but to stroll out after 
breakfast, without any danger of being question- 
ed about ‘whithers or wherefores.’ I’m sure a 
cigarette must be much pleasanter here than in 
a hot, stuffy room. I’m not a quarter of an hour 
late, after all ; and you are as plaintive as if I 
had no danger and difficulties to fight with. 
Yes, dangers — you needn’t shrug your shoulders. 
It isn’t very likely that mamma will come down 
or want me before I get back — we weren’t home 
from the Broadlands till past four — and it isn’t 
very likely she’ll question Rosie, as to whether 
I’ve been with her this morning or not ; but she 
might do it, you know, and then — ” 

She pursed her firm scarlet lips significantly. 

Kendall did not repent being unjust; but he 
had tact enough to see that to persist in sulking 
was scarcely wise. He laid his lips on the gloved 
hand that he held, with a grace that the girl 
thought perfect, though many women would have 
termed it theatrical. 

“Can not you guess what makes me exact- 
ing?” he murmured. “ It is because the min- 
utes I spend with you seem so short and few, 
and the hours I spend alone — I am always 
really alone when I don’t see you — are so long 
and dreary ; and yet I should be miserable, and 
hate myself forever, if you got into trouble on 
my account to-day. I fear your sister would 
hardly help you out of the scrape.” 

“Never!” Nina replied decisively. “Rosie 
is the most good-natured thing alive, as a rule ; 
but in this case she would not help me one bit. 
It was all I could do, on the morning after her 
ball, to prevent her putting mamma on her guard 
about you and me. I think it’s partly on account 
of something Lord Nithsdale said — I do wish 
those grave elders would mind their own affairs 
— but it’s not only that. She’s got prejudices of 
her own, I’m certain.” 

His brow grew overcast again. 

“ Yes : it isn’t likely that I shall ever have to 
be grateful to Lady Nithsdale for her good of- 
fices, or her good word either. I suppose it isn’t 
in her to be uncivil to any one ; but her manner 
grows colder every time we meet, and that’s sel- 
dom enough, God knows. So you weren’t home 
from the Broadlands till past four ? How you 
must have enjoyed yourself! It was so pleasant 
for me to sit alone and fancy it all — who were 
your partners, and what they said ; and how you 
listened, and smiled back at them ; and all 'the 
rest of it.” I 


He shut his lips quickly ; but scarce quick 
enough to prevent the escape of a base, bitter word 
— such as must, indeed, grate on any woman’s 
ears ; unless, like the relatives of a certain lite- 
rate, “she had grown steady under swearing.” 
The girl looked at him with a little pained sur- 
prise, but without a particle of fear. If Lord 
Daven try’s daughter was to be ruled by terror, 
another manner of man than Horace Kendall 
must have swayed the iron sceptre. 

“I wish very, very much that you could have 
been there,” she said simply ; “ and I didn’t quite 
give you up till midnight ; for I thought it just 
possible you might have got an invitation at the 
last moment. But when I saw that wishing was 
of no use, I tried to make the best of it ; and I 
did enjoy myself after a fashion ; I’m not a bit 
ashamed to confess it. You hardly expected me 
to sit sulking in a corner, or to waltz with tears 
in my eyes ? I’m sure I can’t remember what 
my partners said. Much the same as usual, I 
suppose; but I can- remember their names, I 
dare say. Hardly any of them are friends or en- 
emies of yours.” 

There was not a shadow of taunt in those last 
words; yet they stung him not the less sharply. 

“That’s very likely,” he sneered. “All in 
your sister’s set, I suppose — a very nice set, too. 
They live in a sort of Agapemone of their own, 
and don’t think an outsider worth nodding to. 
They are the very partners I should have chosen 
for you, of course, if I had had to choose.” 

Gwendoline Marston was not by any means a 
well-read young lady ; and Spiritual Wives had 
not then been written. The long Greek word 
fairly puzzled her. 

“ I haven’t an idea what you mean by Aga- 
something-or-other ; something very severe, no 
doubt. I suppose I’m an outsider, too ; for very 
few of Rosie’s set ever notice me much — unless 
it’s Regy Avenel, who gives me a turn some- 
times for old acquaintance’ sake. You needn't 
be captious about my partners. Wait till I risk 
for any one of them one quarter as much as I 
have risked for 3’ou this morning — something 
more than a scolding, as you know. But I didn’t 
come out here to quarrel. Look pleasant, this mo- 
ment, or I’ll carry back what I’ve brought for 
you. Cross-grained people don’t deserve any 
thing half so pretty.” 

She opened a small case, holding a sort of arm- 
let like an Indian bangle ; only the band of dead 
gold was flatter and broader, and it was closed 
with a spring-lock. On the outside, in bright 
raised Roman letters, was the word “Nina;” 
and within was engraved a date — the date of the 
Nithsdale ball. 

“ I arrest you in the Queen’s name,” she said, 
laughing delightedly at his look of surprise, “and 
resistance is useless ; so sit still and be hand- 
cuffed.” 

As she spoke, she fitted the band round his 
arm, and closed the spring-lock with a snap. It 
was not so tight as to be galling, yet not loose 
enough to slip below the wrist-joint ; so that 
under any ordinary circumstances the sleeve 
would hide it. 

Very wise or very morose he must surely be, 
who is not mollified by a present offered timor- 
ously by fair white hands. Men who would put 
aside such a thing, coming from one of their fel- 
lows, as though it savored of bribe, would no 


I ARREST YOU IN THE QUEEN’S NAME. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


more reject the first proof of a woman’s generosity 
than they would stay the dropping of the summer- 
dew ; and might be inclined to doubt whether it 


is always more blessed to give than to receive. 
The consciousness that the natural order of 
things is for this once reversed, does not make 



the situation less pleasant. When Solomon sat 
in his glory, and peace-offerings were laid at his 
feet from Ophir, and Arabia, and the Isles of the 


Sea, I doubt if the richest of them all found such 
favor in his solemn eyes as the meanest gift of the 
dusky Sabaean beauty. 


36 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


Kendall was neither a sage nor a stoic, nor at 
any time hampered by over-much delicacy. His 
ill- humor vanished instantly. lie would possibly 
have preferred a trinket that he could have 
flaunted more ostentatiously — the plebeian drop 
in his blood showed itself in nothing more than 
in a garish taste in personal adornment — never- 
theless, he was much gratified, and so eloquent 
in his thanks, that Nina was fain to check them. 

‘ ‘ It isn’t worth speaking about, ” she said, with 
a bright blush ; “ but I’m so glad you like it, 
and that you should like the fancy, too. When- 
ever you get tired of it, you must come to me to 
take it oft'; for it can’t be opened without the 
key, which I mean to keep.” 

Not worth speaking about? Perhaps few wom- 
en, unspoiled by the world, think any homage 
paid to their first suzerain d' amour worth a second 
thought, much less a second word. Yet there 
are men, not especially high-souled or unselfish, 
who would have owned to a certain swelling of 
the heart, had they guessed with what infinite 
difficulty and risk Nina Marston had contrived 
to order that armlet ; and at what cost, not 
only of self-denial, but of self-abasement, she 
had contrived to beg and borrow and save coin 
enough to pay for it. If Horace Kendall had 
been aware of these details, he would only have 
smiled ; and the smile would have been half- 
contemptuous of the girl’s folly, half-exultant 
over his own irresistible charms. 

For a minute or two they sat hand in hand, 
quite silent ; then Nina glanced at her watch, 
and rose up quickly. 

“I must go now. Don’t try to keep me; I 
feel it isn’t safe. It’s always bad luck, to go 
against presentiments. You may w'alk with me 
to the gate if you like, but you mustn’t come out- 
side. I don’t want to scandalize my respectable 
old cabman. It was so nice of him, to bring me 
here all through by-streets, just as if he guessed 
what I wished ; and not to look in the least know- 
ing, when I told him to wait here. I only hope 
he’ll be as discreet in taking me back.” 

Kendall had studied his part of jeune premier 
very carefully ; he thought it was his cue here to 
look mildly reproachful, and to heave a little in- 
jured sigh ; but he did not attempt to detain his 
companion either by word or gesture, and the two 
walked away together. 

“I shall see you again soon — very soon?” 
Horace asked, when they were nearing the gate. 

“ I’m sure I hope so,” she said rather drearily. 
“Every day it seems more difficult to manage. 
We go to the Opera, to-night, of course; and 
to-morrow there’s a great dinner at home, and 
a crowd coming in the evening. On Saturday 
there’s a hateful garden-party of the Chetwynds’ 
at Twickenham. I do so wish it would rain, and 
spoil those horse-chestnuts they make such a 
fuss about. I don’t see a chance of our meeting, 
unless it’s in the crush-room to-night ; and then 
you musn’t talk to me for more than a second 
or two.” 

His face lowered again ; and he looked at her 
askance from under his bent brows. 

“ I have always heard that where there’s a will 
there’s a way. The proverb don’t seem to apply 
in our case. I suppose we shall not meet again, 
till some one of your acquaintance gives a music- 
party at which I’m wanted. I have a great mind 
to go in for the regular professional game. Then, 


perhaps, Lady Daventry wouldn’t mind my 
giving you some singing-lessons; my terms 
wouldn’t be exorbitant, and your voice is worth 
taking some pains about.” 

There w'as sorrowful wonder in her great black 
eyes, but no anger or upbraiding. Considering 
her quick, willful temper, the patience with which 
she met each fresh proof of his peevish ingrati- 
tude was something miraculous. 

“I don’t deserve that,” she said. “Never 
mind : I’ll forget it as soon as I can ; but I wish 
you wouldn’t say things that it hurts one to re- 
member. It isn’t my fault, surely, that Lady 
Longfield has been crossed off our visiting-list, 
so that there’s no chance of her bringing you to- 
morrow evening. I don’t think mamma had any 
special reason for doing it — she’s too indolent to 
quarrel with any one — but she’s rather a knack 
of dropping her acquaintances. Did you ever 
hear of a girl, in her first season, teasing people 
for inventions for a man — neither her cousin, 
nor a very old friend? If you won’t trust me, I 
can’t help it. It will only make more up-hill 
work for us both.” 

Kendall had the tact to see that for once he 
had touched the wrong chord, and pressed it too 
long: so he drew the contrition-stop at once. ' 
The first few words brought the light back into 
Nina Marston’s face ; and, after the usual prom- 
ises to write and so forth, they parted amicably. 

Horace Kendall’s meditations seemed some- 
what checkered in their kind ; for, if he frowned 
twice or thrice as he walked back across the park, 
his lips wore an insolent smile as he halted in a 
solitary spot, and, drawing back his sleeve, let 
the armlet shimmer in the sun. 


CHAPTER XII. 

When the news of Mrs. Ellerslie’s engage- 
ment was announced, there was in the world 
not a little wonder ; and much diversity of opin- 
ion as to the chances of its turning out happily. 
The prophets of evil were to the prophets of 
good as it were ten to one: yet few of these 
were influenced by rancor, or any thing beyond 
the purposeless spite of the.hack-gossip, who is 
bound to be cynical, if not scandalous. 

The animosities that Blanche Ellcrslie had 
provoked were all feminine, and not very bitter 
or enduring. Indeed, many who had watched 
jealously the going-out and coming-in of the 
dangerous little cruiser, were not ill-disposed 
to wish her “ God-speed,” now that she was to 
sail no longer under her own flag ; and so could 
have less excuse than ever for molesting the 
stately caravels forging onward toward nuptial 
roadsteads and havens. 

No man could follow such a career as Ram- 
say’s had been for years past, without laying 
foundation for more than one mortal feud : but, 
if Mark could not speak of his enemies in the 
words of the old Spanish statesman who has just 
passed away — Ils sont tons fusilles — he could 
comfort himself with the assurance that none of 
them was just now to the fore to witness against 
his past, or augur maliciously of his future. It 
should be remembered, that since the early me t - 
ridian of life he had lived so much abroad, that 
the untravelled part of English society scarcely 
knew him, except by hearsay. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


37 


On neither side were there any of those ill- 
used friends, whose querulous voices mar the 
harmony of epithalamia. In the early and mid- 
dle days of her widowhood, Blanche had not 
lacked suitors ; but of late her disinclination to 
marry again had become such an established 
fact, that no one had cared to incur an almost 
certain rejection, which might bring a restraint 
on the pleasant freedom of Platonic straying. 
Others, beside Harry Armar, had carried away 
from her presence the sting of her coquetry, and 
had striven more or less effectually to deaden 
it by one or other anodyne. But, of all that 
had known her intimately, Oswald Gauntlet was 
perhaps the only one who had never quite ceased 
to think of her in the light of his possible wife. 

Since Mark Ramsay’s name was first quoted 
in the marriage-market, his demeanor had been 
so carefully guarded, and his courtesy so justly 
apportioned, that no chaperone , howsoever exact- 
ing or sanguine, could complain of his having 
trifled with the affections of their charges. 

If on the present occasion there was not much 
of envy or uncharitableness, doubt, and infinite 
curiosity, were expressed as to the result of the 
match. It could not exactly be called an ill- 
assorted one ; for the several ages of the two 
affianced were suitable enough ; and they might 
be supposed to possess a certain similarity of 
tastes. Nevertheless, their contract seemed to 
rouse in the world a kind of buzz of expectation 
— such as pervades the gallery when two renown- 
ed ecar/e-plavers face each other. If any of 
these whispers reached, as is not likely, the ears 
of the parties chiefly concerned, neither surely 
bestowed on them a second thought; for Mark 
had walked too long after his own devices to 
care a straw for the world’s wisdom when it 
criticised his private concerns ; and, though 
Blanche had hesitated, as you are aware, before 
taking the final step, all the preachers in Christ- 
endom would not have persuaded her to repent 
it when once taken. 

Every thing was soon ready for the marriage. 
Even legal charioteers have no excuse for driv- 
ing heavily when their well-oiled wheels meet 
with no impediment ; and it is known with 
what a will milliners will work for a favorite 
customer, in whose order there is the ring of 
readv gold. If any had been disposed to ques- 
tion Mrs. Ellerslie’s popularity, they would have 
been compelled to acknowledge it after review- 
ing her wedding-presents. This was not a case 
of contract between financial or social magnates, 
where the gifts, as a matter of course, are gor- 
geous and numberless. Very few of Blanche’s 
intimates could really afford to be generous ; yet 
day by day offerings came pouring in, till Laura 
Brancepeth’s back drawing-room became all 
ablaze with bijouterie. Amongst these there 
was a gift that attracted much attention ; though 
several that lay around were much richer in ap- 
pearance, if not in intrinsic value— a fire-opal of 
great size and brilliancy, set in the midst of a 
square amulet of the soft pale gold worked only 
by Eastern jewellers. Round the upper edge 
ran an intricate mixture of dots arid curves, that 
ninety-nine out of a hundred would have mis- 
taken for a pattern in arabesque. A very ac- 
curate observer might have noticed that the 
graving of the signs was of later date than the 
ornament itself. 


This was Mr. Anstruther’s present, and he 
brought it himself. He had written to Blanche 
several times about her business-matters, which 
he managed with his usual skill and earnestness ; 
but had never shown in Craven Square since 
the day you wot of. On the present occasion 
his manner was stiff almost to ungraciousness; 
and, if Blanche had not been taken up in ad- 
miring the amulet — for the quaintness of the 
design, even more than the beauty of the gem, 
captivated her fancy— she must have noticed 
this at once. And when she thanked him, not 
only for his pretty present, but also for the trou- 
ble he had taken on her behalf, he answered 
quite chillingly. 

“I can not accept thanks that I have not 
earned — at least, from you. A little business is 
quite a godsend to a perfectly idle man who 
has worked in his time ; and the little I have 
done for you I would have done twenty times 
over, unasked, to please Walter Ellerslie. And 
he did ask me, in the last letter I ever had from 
him, to serve you whenever I could. If I have 
carried out his wishes, I am glad; but I can 
claim little gratitude from you, you see, any 
more than I can for devising that trinket, which 
I got — honestly, I assure you — years and years 
ago. The change I made in it — it’s hardly 
worth naming — was only adding these letters.” 

He traced with his finger the inscription round 
the edge. 

She was surprised, and a little hurt, at the 
change in his demeanor. He seemed so bent 
on ignoring entirely their last interview — so de- 
termined to make her feel, that familiar confi- 
dences, between a grave personage like himself 
and a light-minded bird like her, were mis- 
placed ; and that for her own sake she was not 
worth looking after. Nevertheless, she felt some- 
how that no real unkindness was meant, and 
deemed it best to let it pass for the present. 

“Those letters?” she said; “I had no idea 
they were letters. And what do they spell? — 
some terrible cabalistic word, I dare say.” 

“No; a very plain and simple one, whether 
it is written in English or Sanscrit — the word is 
‘Ready.’ I had it engraved there, because I 
wished you to be reminded sometimes that 
though the trust, if you can call it so, that Wal- 
ter Ellerslie left me ends on your marriage-day, 
I am always ready with any help that I can 
render. If I had ever been romantic, Mrs. El- 
lerslie, I should have outlived that long ago. 
I mean literally what I say ; and I shall not go 
back from my word if we don’t chance to meet 
for years after next Wednesday — not a very un- 
likely thing either — and the service I refer to 
has nothing to do with the duties of a marriage- 
trustee.” 

“ I will not forget,” she said softly ; “ but, if 
I ever ask you for help, it will be in my own 
name — not even in that of the kind, brave soul 
who trusted me to you — and then I may thank 
you for myself, and in my own fashion. But I 
can not understand what you mean by its being 
likely that we should not meet. Wherever I 
am, you know you will always be welcome ; and 
I’m certain you will like Mark when you be- 
come better acquainted.” 

Was she so snre-of that? Little as she was 
to be trusted when trifling, Mrs. Ellerslie was 
seldom insincere. She felt a disagreeable con- 


38 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


seiousness just now, that those last words might 
just as well have been left unsaid; and that 
George Anstruther deserved something better 
than a hollow form of courtesy. Possibly some 
such thought may have crossed his mind likewise. 
If his manner had thawed a little, it froze now 
more rigidly than ever. 

“ You’re very kind. I’m not likely to Pe 
troublesome to you ; and I fear I’ve little chance 
of improving my acquaintance with Mr. Ram- 
say. I never mix in general society, as perhaps 
you have heard, and my bad habits are past 
mending. When I accepted your invitation for 
Wednesday next, I accepted only for the church, 
you remember.” 

With all her tact in such matters, Blanche felt^ 
at a loss how to break the awkward pause that 
ensued. She had always considered Mr. An- 
struther very abrupt and eccentric ; but his man- 
ner now fairly puzzled her. That he still meant 
kindly by her was clear; but then, what signi- 
fied the harsh coldness for which she had given no 
sort of fresh cause ? Whilst she was in this state 
of perplexity, the door opened, infinitely to her 
relief, and Laura Brancepeth entered — from 
whose presence, so soon as he could decently es- 
cape, Mr. Anstruther made precipitate retreat. 

Lady Peverell herself — hating L.a Reine Gail- 
larde as only Puritans can hate — was fain to at- 
tribute to her some slight good-nature and gen- 
erosity ; but the warmest of her admirers scarcely 
gave that reckless dame credit for so much delica- 
cy as she had evinced since the engagement had 
become an accomplished fact. Her one object 
seemed to be, to make Blanche forget all that 
she had said whilst warning was of avail; and 
she would not hear of the wedding-breakfast 
taking place elsewhere than in Craven Square — 
devoting to the celebration of that select banquet 
more time and zeal than she had ever spared to 
the most important of her own entertainments. 
She was not fickle, either in her likes or dislikes. 
At first it was rather a trial to be always cordial 
to Mark Ramsay ; and she had to set a watch on 
her free-spoken lips, lest a sjharp word should 
escape them unawares. But this restraint soon 
passed away. She could not deny that Mark’s 
demeanor toward his fiancee was simply perfect ; 
and, as, day by day, she came to acknowledge 
that report had not exaggerated the fascination 
of his manner, she ceased to wonder at Blanche’s 
infatuation, or even to call her choice by such a 
name. 

‘‘Devils are not often quite so black as they 
are painted,” she confessed, “and this one’s 
complexion certainly improves on acquaintance. 
I don’t feel the least inclined to exorcise him 
now when he appears ; and I have quite left off 
pitying Blanche ; though I don’t think it’s likely 
I shall ever quite come to envy her. There’s 
room for improvement, of course ; but I’m not 
sure that’s a bad thing. Mr. Brancepeth is never 
so happy, as when he’s ‘improving’ some piece 
of land or another ; and Blanche can try her 
hand in the same line. Perhaps she will get 
some good crops out of her new property after all, 
if she’s any luck in husbandry.” 

Her confidant — vievx routier himself — smiled 
approvingly. 

“ Metaphorical as usual,” he said. “ I don’t 
suppose any one else would have got Satanic and 
agricultural similes into the same sentence. But 


your charity covers even such a sin as that very 
old joke about husbandry. I do hope things will 
turn out better than the wiseacres would have 
it. It’s such a comfort to see the talent wrong 
sometimes.” 

When Blanche Ellerslie lay down to rest on 
the eve of her second wedding-day, she could 
not help comparing her sensations with what 
she had felt at a similar season once before. 
Though she was very young then, she had tasted, 
in all innocence, of the fruit of the Tree of 
knowledge of good and evil ; and she was not 
much overcome by the vague terrors that beset 
guileless maidenhood, just about to cross the 
frontier of an unknown land. Left motherless 
in her childhood, she had managed a household 
at an age when most girls are still in school tram- 
mels. General Norman, when off duty, was too 
busy with his own pursuits to keep strict watch 
and ward over the proceedings of his charming 
daughter. He was only too glad to see her 
amusing herself in her own way ; and, though 
he told his friends in confidence sometimes that 
“such an arrant little flirt never breathed,” he 
said it rather pleasantly than complaingly ; and 
never dreamed of the possibility of her coming 
to harm. 

The father, though not very wise in his gene- 
ration, was right so far. Blanche, before she was 
far advanced in her teens, was well able to defend 
her own heart. Love-whispers not a few had 
been poured into her ears, before Walter Eller- 
slie’s deep grave tones made the offer of mar- 
riage ; but she had never been hampered by a 
serious attachment, or even by a fancy that sur- 
vived a week ; neither had she any repugnance to 
overcome. Perhaps she would have preferred a 
husband whose 

Locks were like the raven’s, 

Whose bonnie brow was brent. 

But this was a mere matter of taste not worth in- 
sisting on ; and she felt somehow that she would 
be safer, and happier, and freer to boot, in the 
long-run, under the guardianship of the stiff, 
stern soldier, than under that of the gay gallants 
whose lissom knees would bend each night before 
a fresh beauty. She fully intended to make 
Colonel Ellerslie’s home bright and cheery ; and 
that resolve she worked out to the letter, after her 
own fashion. At least he thought so who ought 
to have known best, and said so when he lay 
a-dying. 

She had sat on her first husband’s knee, and 
played with his sword-hilt, when she was quite 
a child ; he gave her the first ornament she ever 
wore — a waist-belt of regimental gold-lace — and 
she had got so thoroughly used to him, that, on 
the eve of the day when she was to take his name, 
she hardly felt as if she were going to enter a 
strange home. It w'as very different with her 
now. She had known Mark Ramsay scarcely 
four months ; and there was no reason why she 
should feel safe in trusting herself implicitly to 
his mercy : indeed, now that she was about so to 
trust herself, there were less grounds, as she 
knew full well, for confidence than for fear. 

To his mercy. That w’as the only true way of 
putting it. That she had firm and fast hold on 
his affection now she could not doubt ; but, if 
that hold were ever to be loosened, or cast off 
altogether, she felt she would have nothing else 
to cling to in this life, or — if truth must be 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


39 


written — in tlic next. Blanche was not absolute- 
ly a heathen ; but she had never been taught to 
say a prayer except by rote, and hers was but a 
lip-religion at the best. Her perishable wealth, 
such as it was, was all locked up in treasure- 
houses t that, if they keep out the robber, can not 
for long keep out the canker-worm. She had 
made a plaything of love till now ; suddenly the 
laughing child had waxed into a giant’s stature, 
and stood before her — dark- browed, armed, 
menacing. Into the fair house so long tenant- 
less, though swept and garnished, a strong spirit 
had entered ; what manner of spirit it was, 
could be proven in the future only. She felt 
somewhat like a gamester who, having always 
till now played for the merest trifle, finds him- 
self lured on to deeper and deeper stakes ; till 
at last all his fortune is set upon one cast — a 
cast yet to be thrown. 

Pondering on these things, it is no wonder if 
Blanche Ellerslie’s heart fluttered strangely ; 
but she never repented for an instant, or wished 
the morrow deferred ; and the tremor only gave 
a keener zest to the delight of anticipated happi- 
ness. She would not have set the shadow of the 
next morning’s sun one hair’s breadth back on 
the dial. A smile lingered on her lips long after 
her eyes were closed ; and, if her sleep was not 
dreamless that night, it was haunted by no visions 
of warning. 

o 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Few men, if they told truth, would not own 
to having experienced some curious sensations, 
when they came to realize that, with another 
round of the clock, the thread of their bachelor 
life must be cut in twain. 

It is not a very terrible death, certainly. The 
Wielder of the shears wears a fair white robe, 
all be-ribboned and purple-fringed ; and over her 
features there falls the brightest of saffron veils ; 
but, mask it as gaylv as she will, we know it is 
Atropos, and none other, that cometh in the 
morning. Even the impetuous lover — who, for 
the last month past, has quarrelled with the tar- 
diness of time — may, without treason, at such an 
hour indulge in two or three retrospective sighs. 
These last hours are spent differently, of course 
— often very differently from what one would 
expect from previous knowledge of the person — 
but I think they are not often spent alone. 

Not long ago, a man, who has since turned out 
a perfect prize-husband, was found, late on the 
eve of his wedding-day, wandering through the 
groves of Cremorne. He was no roistering Al- 
satian ; the place had never been a favorite haunt 
of his ; and I dare swear there was not a single 
wish or regret then in his honest heart that his 
bride might not have known and approved. 
When put upon his defense there and then by 
certain acquaintances, who pretended to be scan- 
dalized at lighting on him there, his sole excuse 
was, that it was too hot for any smoking-room, 
and he came there for company. It was the 
simple truth, I have no doubt. He had less rea- 
son, perhaps, than most people to dread being left 
alone with his own thoughts ; but he preferred 
any society to theirs just then. 

Mark Ramsay was not given to sentimentalize, 
and, troubling himself not a whit about the past 


— was nearly a fatalist as to the future. He had 
a presentiment, as has been hinted before, that 
retributive justice, in one shape or other, would 
lay hands on him some day ; but he felt no awe 
of the distant shadow. Whether the sword over 
his head swung by a steel wire, or a silken thread, 
he cared not to inquire ; and fully meant to take 
his ease after his own fashion till the blow should 
fall. He was no surface Sybarite : his thoughts 
were so thoroughly drilled, that, if he could not 
always regulate their flow, lie could at least draw 
them out of any disagreeable channel; so that 
they were scarce likely to give him much trouble 
now. Nevertheless, he had been careful to pro- 
vide against solitude on the last evening of his 
bachelorhood ; and another beside himself heard 
the clocks chime midnight in those same cham- 
bers, where his musing-fit after the Nithsdale ball 
had ended with the words, “I will.” 

Mark Ramsay had a very large acquaintance; 
and, in despite of his misdemeanors, was rather 
popular than otherwise in general society ; but 
if he had lived from youth upward the life of a 
recluse he could not have had fewer intimates. 
Such a term certainly would not apply to his 
present companion ; though, since he first knew 
Vere Alsager, he had been much in his company, 
and each could have told curious tales of the 
other, had they been given to babbling. 

Some people thought Alsager’s face singularly 
handsome. Picturesque it certainly was — with 
its keen aquiline contour, set off by a blue-black 
beard, whose massive lustrous waves might have 
made an Osmanli envious. His deep-set eyes 
were quiet enough as a rule ; but now and then 
there came into them rather a truculent look, 
after seeing which once, you ceased to wonder at 
the man’s story. It was a simple, and not a very 
uncommon one. He was bred to diplomacy : and 
was on the fair road to advancement, when an 
unlucky accident — as his friends called it, though 
the world in general gave it a harsher name — 
turned him adrift without a career. Half a dozen 
different versions of this were given at the time; 
none of which perhaps were absolutely correct. 
No one believed that the first cause of offense 
arose out of the difference of opinion at the Ca- 
sino ; or that Agnello Salviati, the sweetest-tem- 
pered of voluptuaries, would have made a few 
careless words, dropped by the other, the pretext 
of a mortal quarrel. One thing was certain — 
that Alsager might easily have avoided the un- 
happy issue, had he been so minded, without 
impeachment of his honor. This told heavily 
against him. There was a rumor, too, more gen- 
erally believed than disbelieved, of a woman, 
thickly cloaked and veiled, who visited him late 
that night ; and of agonized entreaty and bitter 
wailing, overheard by some who lodged under 
the same roof; and people would have it that 
other reasons, besides natural grief for her only 
brother, drove Maddalena Salviati soon after- 
ward into the shelter of the cloister. If it was 
she who came to plead, that night, for herself or 
another, she might have spared herself the trouble 
and the shame. There was no more compassion 
in Vere Alsager’s eyes, than if he were there to 
avenge a wrong, when he took his place next 
morning for the barrier-duel ; and his hand was 
steady enough to send a bullet through his ad- 
versary’s lungs, before the forty paces betwixt 
them were shortened by three. 


40 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


Looking at it in its most favorable light, it was 
a very ugly story — so ugly that all the family in- 
terest, used unsparingly in the delinquent’s be- 
half, could make no head against it. The chief 
of the Foreign Office in those days was no purist : 
but his bitterest political foes avouched him a 
high-minded gentleman ; and the black cross, set 
by him over against Vere Alsager’s name, none 
of his successors was tempted to erase. It was 
years artd years ago when all this happened ; and 
Alsager — who since then had lived a quiet dilet- 
tante sort of life, addicting himself chiefly to 
painting, wherein he had acquired no mean skill, 
and giving no further grave cause for scandal — 
had been gradually taken back into the world’s 
good graces ; till now he was not in much worse 
repute than many of whom it is vaguely whisper- 
ed “that they have been a little wild in their 
youth.” His own memory was not quite so ac- 
commodating. He never thought of that night 
— and he thought of it often — without intense 
bitterness : the bitterness of an eager, ambitious 
man, by whose own act and deed a promising ca- 
reer has been marred ; with which mingled, per- 
haps, certain drops of remorse. But then, you 
see, he knew all the rights of the story; wherein 
he had the advantage of any living. Even Mark 
Ramsay, who paced out the ground from the bar- 
rier, and measured to a grain the charge of the 
fatal pistol, was only partially taken into his prin- 
cipal’s confidence at the time ; and since then, by 
tacit consent, the subject had been ignored be- 
twixt them. 

All the circumstances considered, one might 
have thought that Ramsay, lacking a grooms- 
man, would have chosen some other than Alsa- 
ger. The parallel of one good turn deserving 
another, would scarcely apply here. Yet both 
seemed to think the arrangement perfectly nat- 
ural : Avhen Vere said, “ Of course, I shall be 
very happy,” the other thoroughly understood the 
meaning of his smile. And so it was settled. 

It was characteristic of the two men, that, 
though they had dined and spent all the even- 
ing together, neither had made the faintest allu- 
sion to the event of the morrow: They had ana- 
lyzed the racing of the past week ; and the chances 
of certain of their fellows surviving the next great 
meeting — for plunging was much affected by the 
set to which they both belonged — decided that 
the great Ethiopian Opera was a delusion and a 
snare ; and that its impresario , through age and 
overfeeding, had become incapable of judging 
whether voices were cracked or legs crooked — 
discussed the latest alliances, legal or illegal, of 
their mutual acquaintances : but of Mark’s mar- 
riage not one word. 

“Perfect chambers, certainly,” Alsager re- 
marked after a long pause, making a blue smoke- 
wreath curl round the bronze torso of a dancing 
faun ; “ quite ornamental enough, and not over- 
done. I hate, when I’m sitting in a man’s room, 
to be always reminded of a boudoir in the Quar- 
tier Breda.” 

“Yes. Clinton had very chaste notions of 
furnishing,” the other assented, “ which is odd 
enough, remembering what his other tastes were. 
I took this place off his hands just as it stood, 
when he was obliged to make a moonlight flitting. 
There was no valuation ; and I gave him his own 
price without chaffering ; but 1 fancy I got a real 
bargain. Nothing you see is really mine, so far 


as choice goes, except a few pictures and statu- 
ettes ; and I haven’t been long enough here to 
feel thoroughly domesticated ; so there’s no great 
reason why I should be plaintive about chang- 
ing my quarters.” 

A low incredulous laugh stirred the black 
waves of Alsager’s beard. 

“You’re improving,” he said. “Till now, I 
never guessed that you would undervalue a 
pretty tiling because another man owned it ; or 
J that you could not be comfortable unless you 
| felt thoroughly domesticated. Made nova vir - 
tute. The will-o’-the-wisp will be a steady, shin- 
ing light, before all’s done. What do you mean 
to do about these chambers — to let some one else 
have them, all standing ? That’s the simplest way. 
I wish I could afford to take them, I know.” 

“I’ve hardly made up my mind,” Mark an- 
swered. “I’m in no particular hurry about it. 
There’s nothing here I should care to move all 
the way to Scotland ; and I sha’n’t look out for 
a town-house till next spring. I’ll tell you 
what, Vere ; 3 7 ou may live here till then, if you 
like — rent-free, of course. It’s no favor. I’d 
infinitely sooner leave my things in your charge, 
than at the old housekeeper’s mercy. Will you 
come?” ® 

“I should like it of all things,” the other 
said ; “ though, if it isn’t a favor, I’ve very 
vague ideas of benevolence. The worst of it is, 
one would never be able to go back and settle 
down in dingy lodgings again. Never mind- 
Unto the day, the day. I accept all the same. 
I’m very disinterested, you see ; for I can’t un- 
derstand why you don’t clear out at once. You 
could easily put your nicknacks in safe-keeping 
somewhere ; and it’s so utterly impossible that 
you could ever use these chambers again.” 

“ Highly improbable, certainly. ; but — as for 
impossible, it’s a very big word ; too big for my 
dictionary, I know.” 

They looked at each other; and Alsager 
smiled again. 

“Ah, I understand. A wise general always 
provides for retreat. Your provisions arc made 
in good time. Mark — the devil's in it, if we 
two can’t speak frankly — you’ll own, it is a leap 
in the dark you are taking, after all ?” 

“ Very much in the dark,” the other answered 
coolly. “But the landing is likely to be as. 
safe, or more so, than in most of the jumps that 
we have taken with our eyes open. One thing 
I am certain of — if I’m not comfortable it will 
be my own fault or misfortune ; and so you’ll 
see, when you come to know Blanche better. 
There are dozens of women all round us pret- 
tier, and wittier, and better than she is, I dare 
say ; but she is simply the most sociable creature 
I ever met with ; her voice and manner, let 
alone her face, grow on you quite curiously.” 

“ I never doubted Mrs. Ellerslie’s attractions,” 
Alsager said, “ and I dare say you could not have 
made a luckier choice. What I did doubt was 
— whether you should have chosen at all. But 
we’re creatures of circumstance much more than 
of habit, I do believe ; and, perhaps, if any one 
left me a big property and a big house, I should 
begin to feel matrimonial immediately, as a 
matter of course. It isn’t likely such a good 
part will ever be cast to me; but, I confess, I 
look forward to seeing you play the Head of the 
Familv.” 


41 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


“ Mind you do come and see it, then,” Ram- 
say retorted. “There’s no disease in the Ken- 
lis moors so far, I hear; they are only over- 
stocked, and want shooting down. I shall reck- 
on on you early in August, mind.” 

He stretched himself as he spoke, pitching the 
end of his cigar away. The other took the hint, 
and rose. 

“ Yes ; it’s full time we went to bed. It’s no 
question of steadiness of eye and hand to-mor- 
row ; but the breakfast is an awful trial of nerve : 
I’m not afraid of the church work.” 

“Very brave of you, I must say. Now I 
think it’s just as well, for your sake, there’s no 
sprinkling of holy water, in our marriage-ser- 
vice, over the assistants ; there’s no knowing 
what the effect might be. Good-night : mind 
you’re ready when I call for you.” 

“‘The assistants,”’ Yere Alsager thought 
within himself as he strode away. “ And how 
about the principals? They have no need to 
shrink from holy water, of course — particularly 
St. Mark yonder. I’ve done some queerish 
things in my time : but, if his past were weighed 
against mine, I know which side would kick the 
beam. It’s kind of him, too, to lend me these 
chambers ; though I question if it’s quite disin- 
terested kindness. Bah ! I’m always question- 
ing ; and what’s the use of it ? Perhaps it will 
be longer than next spring before he wants to 
make use of his petite maison : perhaps he never 
had the idea, after all. I like what I have seen 
of her. Those dainty, delicate women are 
piquant long after they cease to be pretty ; and 
hers is a face that will last. I shouldn’t mind 
painting it. I’ll book Ivenlis for August, at all 
events : it won’t be half a bad place to stay at, as 
long as things go on smoothly.” 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Did you ever chance to read Firmilian — the 
completest literary mystification of modern times ? 
You may be sure, it has not been forgotten yet 
by the ill-used critics who sat in judgment on its 
merits and demerits, wagging their heads over its 
spasmodic vagaries — though some, tempering 
judgment with mercy, held out hope of amend- 
ment to the hot-brained offender, if he would but 
profit by their monitions — and who found out, 
when it was too late, that they had but fed the 
laughter of the veteran humorist, who, having 
spread the net, never stirred tongue nor finger till 
the grave Palladian birds were fluttering in the 
meshes. 

Truly, the mock-tragedy deserves to be remem- 
bered on other grounds besides these. After all, 
the spasmodic element was not much more glar- 
ingly developed than in parts of Festzis, and oth- 
ers of the same school ; and many dramas, work- 
ed out in sober earnest, and profusely sprinkled 
with the midnight oil, lack the rhythm and power 
of the pasquinade penned for pastime in the sum- 
mer forenoons at Spey-side. 

There is great pomp and festival in the church 
of St. Nicholas. The sun streams full and fair 
through the gorgeous window ; sweetly and slow- 
ly rises and falls the chant of the trained voices — 

There rolls the organ anthem down the aisle, 

And thousand voices join in its acclaim. 


All they are happy — they are on their knees ; 

Round and above them stare the images 
Of antique saints and martyrs ; the censers steam 
With their Arabian charge of frankincense ; 

And every heart, with inward fingers, counts 
The blissful rosary of pious prayer. 

It is very still and dark in the vaults below, 
where the powder-barrels are stored, and where 
waits the busy mocker, holding the slow match 
that will anon send the souls of all those good 
worshipers above flitting hither and thither. Af- 
ter a while comes the last triumphant antiphon — 

Nicholai, sacerdotum 

Decus, honor, gloria ; 

Plebem ornnem, clerum totum — 

And then — 

[The cathedral is blown up. 

Not long ago, I heard a man confess — he was 
not given to quaint fancies, nor specially sardonic 
or sombre of temperament — that he never listened 
to a marriage-service without thinking of that 
same cathedral scene. His experience of life, it 
appeared, had forced him to believe that, under 
the feet of most couples standing face to face be- 
fore the altar, there is stored up more or less of 
combustible elements, the firing of which is mere- 
ly a question of time ; though the explosion may 
be long deferred, and, when it occurs, may be 
attended with nothing more harmful than a little 
noise and smoke. 

But even this foreboder of evil would have 
been puzzled to discover any thing very threaten- 
ing in the aspect of things, if he had been present 
on the morning when Mark Ramsay took Blanche 
Ellerslie to be his wedded wife. Though neither 
the bride nor the bridegroom had turned the cor- 
ner of middle life, they were quite old enough to 
know their own minds ; and neither was likely to 
make a false step through impulse or from rash- 
ness. If there was little likelihood of intense de- 
votion on either side, there was fair promise of 
the pleasant companionship which unites people 
endowed with similar tastes and facilities for in- 
dulging the same. 

Against this were to be set, of course, Ram- 
say’s antecedents, which certainly were the re- 
verse of encouraging : but he had been more than 
twelve months, as it were, on his probation ; and, 
so far as the world knew, had shown no signs of 
relapse. Society in general was disposed to give 
him credit for having turned over a new leaf. 
If he had not intended henceforth to do all things 
decently and in order, there was no earthly rea- 
son why he should have hampered himself with a 
wife or a regular establishment. Ivenlis Castle 
was a fine place, to be sure ; but there were oth- 
ers quite as majestic on either side of the Border 
the honors of which were done by bachelors in 
bachelor-fashion — in the most liberal sense of the 
word. Mark’s was one of the exceptional faces 
that never look weather-beaten, after a youth 
ever so stormy ; and any one, seeing him that 
morning for the first time, would have found it 
hard to believe that half the stories told of him 
could be true. 

It was meant to be a quiet wedding, and the 
invitation list was purposely limited ; but the con- 
course of spectators, larger than was common in 
that fashionable church, proved that others be- 
sides the intimate acquaintance of the contracting 
parties were curious to witness their espousal. 
Several of the wedding-party to whom seats were 
allotted in the pews nearest the altar, may have 


42 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


felt like the Pope at Paris, when he said that “the 
greatest wonder of the town was to see him there. ” 
But not one of them seemed so thoroughly out of 
place as Mr. Anstruther. 

The color and fashion of his garments — more 
funereal than festive — would not have been so re- 
markable ; for Anglo-Indian attire is apt to be 
eccentric, especially when the wearer is not on 
speaking terms with his tailor: but the settled 
gloom of the man’s countenance was not so easi- 
ly to be accounted for ; and the nervous discom- 
fort of his manner could hardly be attributed to 
mere lack of familiarity with the forms and cere- 
monies of tie Church as by law established. In 
his eyes— Visually so hard and cold — there was a 
haggard look not pleasant to meet. Perhaps he 
was vaguely conscious of this ; for, during the 
delay before the service commenced, and through- 
out it, except when he was compelled to stand 
up with the rest, he kept his face always shaded 
with his bony hand. 

Yet, when Blanche Ramsay turned away from 
the altar and descended the steps, leaning on her 
husband’s arm, it so chanced that the first glance 
that met hers as she raised her eyes rather shy- 
ly, was George Anstruther’s. His tall lanky 
figure could scarcely fail to be prominent any- 
where ; and he stood close to the aisle. A super- 
stitious person might have taken the omen some- 
what to heart; and Blanche — who believed in 
the jettatura no more than she did in second- 
sight — was half inclined to regret she had so 
pressingly insisted on the presence of this espe- 
cial wedding-guest. She never suspected, for a 
moment, that any one there present could take 
more than a friendly interest in the ceremony 
just concluded ; and — as for any malice or un- 
charitableness being stirred in the breast of so 
staid a personage as George Anstruther — she was 
just as likely to impute such emotions to Mr. 
Brancepeth, who gave her away. If she had 
been forced to answer the question of Oswald 
Gauntlet’s searching eyes, she might possibly 
have felt rather timid, and just the least bit re- 
morseful. But he would never have glared at 
her in that uncanny fashion. 

Men, out of Bedlam, or off the stage, very sel- 
dom do glare nowadays. Those whom she has 
jilted most cruelly, instead of confronting the 
bride at the church-door, in the antique ballad 
fashion, bow their heads meekly and courteously 
as she passes out — even if they do not hum under 
their breaths Beranger’s gay wicked refrain : 

Un doux espoir 

Me sourit encore 

De la couronne de la mariee. 

Nevertheless, the glimpse of that face did affect 
Blanche Ramsay with a faint presentiment of ill- 
luck ; and she shivered ever so slightly— even as 
Horace’s fair mistress may have done, when, step- 
ping daintily toward her litter, she caught sight 
of the snake 

Qui, per obliquum similis sagittjc, 

Terruit mannos. 

The wedding procession had scarcely passed 
down the aisle, when Mr. Anstruther began to 
make his way out of the church, muttering some 
excuse to his nearest neighbor about the heat. It 
was an odd pretext for him to choose, who had 
lived so long where 90° in the shade was the nor- 
mal state of the thermometer ; and who had often, 


in old times, stirred the ire of portly haboos by 
looking comfortably cool in an atmosphere that 
caused them to pant and perspire. Yet it was not, 
perhaps, altogether a false one ; for there was a 
dark flush round either cheek-bone ; and, if you 
had touched Ins hand as he dragged off* his gloves 
impatiently, you would have thought there was 
fever in his veins. But no one in the crowd 
through which he elbowed his way noticed any 
thing strange in his demeanor; and the idlers 
outside never turned their heads to watch the 
gaunt ungainly figure, hurrying away with long 
uneven strides through the glaring sunlight. 

The breakfast in Craven Square was not nearly 
so dreary as such entertainments are wont to be. 
The table w r as not crowded, and almost all who 
sat round it were in the habit of meeting each 
other daily. Formal speech-making would have 
been utterly out of place there — so, at least, 
thought every one except Mr. Brtmcepeth. 

This honest gentleman had not so many oppor- 
tunities of airing the eloquence on which he rath- 
er prided himself, as to lose one when it present- 
ed itself. He had been a hard-working member 
of the Commons’ House for many years ; but his 
maiden-speech was yet unspoken. The whip of 
his party regarded Mr. Brancepeth with an im- 
mense respect and affection, as a model that hair- 
brained, garrulous legislators would have done 
well to imitate. He never asked importunate 
or impertinent questions, and when he was want- 
ed was sure to be found in his place, ready to 
vote exactly as the keeper of his political con- 
science directed, listening always — or seeming to 
listen — with impartial patience to the declamation 
on either side, but never to be biassed in the 
faintest degree by argument, persuasion, or dia- 
tribe. Surely he had a perfect right to indemni- 
fy himself elsewhere for his silence at St. Ste- 
phen’s, and few grudged him that simple satisfac- 
tion. A t quarter sessions, agricultural meetings, 
and all manner of county gatherings, Mr. Brance- 
peth was always listened to with greater attention 
than more brilliant orators could command; 
whilst he glozed on through one smooth period 
after another, enouncing truisms like startling 
verities, and winding up with a peroration in 
which there was seldom any definite conclusion. 

On occasions like the present he was great. 
The facetiae that formed his stock-in-trade were 
rather trite and mild, but from long practice he 
had acquired a knack of setting them forth so 
that they did not seem so very threadbare ; and 
the fumes of champagne consumed at abnormal 
hours are apt to make an audience rather indul- 
gent than critical. During the long purposeless 
afternoon, when the idea of dinner is as it were 
an abomination, we wax more captious, to be 
sure ; and wonder how we could have been weak 
and base enough to smile at the platitudes float- 
ing in our memory. But this is a mere question 
of digestion after all. If any of Mr. Brancepeth’s 
hearers felt bored or weary, they were polite 
enough to suppress all outward and visible signs 
thereof. So, in perfect charity with all man and 
womankind, he drank to the health of the bride 
and bridegroom, and finished with the comforta- 
ble conviction of having achieved no mean social 
success. 

La Reine Gaillarde had a keen sense of hu- 
mor of her own ; and you may guess that the ex- 
hibition was not particularly agreeable to her. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


43 


But she was not inclined to be hard on any inno- 
cent weakness : her sigh of relief was not too 
audible, nor her smile too satirical, when the ora- 
tor sat down. Her lord and master had shown 
himself so very amiable about all arrangements, 
that she considered he had quite earned the license 
of making himself ridiculous if it so pleased him. 
Most men think they have done enough if they 
play father to a comparative stranger at the altar, 
without placing their mansion at her disposal be- 
fore or on the marriage-day. 

Mark Ramsay replied in half-a-dozen sen- 
tences ; and -this was the only other interruption 
to the flow of general talk that went on pleasant- 
ly enough till breakfast broke up. 

Availing herself of the widow's privilege, 
Blanche had dispensed with bridesmaids : so the 
cynics — if any such were present — were balked 
of the treat of hearing the acknowledgments of 
innocence and beauty spoken by the lips of Vere 
Alsager. 

Amongst the advances of civilization made in 
this our century ought to be reckoned the short- 
ening of honeymoons. Very few conversational- 
ists can talk quite up to their mark, if they know 
they are expected to be amusing ; and the effect 
of being expected to be amative for a certain 
definite period jnust often be much the same. 
If our grandsires would confess the truth, we 
should hear, I fancy, that the sun drove his 
chariot somewhat heavily before the twenty- 
eighth day of enforced seclusion closed in ; and, 
long ere that, there had been certain misgivings 
as to the perfect truth of the ancient adage — 
“ Two are company : three are none. ” We have 
changed all this most assuredly. Even Mrs. 
Malaprop, whose matrimonial ideas were some- 
what in advance of her age, would lift her brows 
in wonder over the curtness of some wedding 
trips. 

Dropping into a certain club on a murky aft- 
ernoon last spring, to my great wonderment I 
lighted upon an ancient acquaintance in his ac- 
customed place, smoking his cigarette, and sip- 
ping his perroquet, in the contemplative fashion 
that is usual with him when the day is almost 
done. I rubbed my eyes, so to speak, thinking 
that I saw a vision ; or that, at the least, I must 
have been dreaming when I read, not twenty- 
four hours before, the announcement of his mar- 
riage. Inclining to this last opinion, I express- 
ed it in so many words. 

“There’s no mistake, ” Randal Lacy said plac- 
idly. “We were married all right enough ; and 

we went down to ” (the precise locality of 

the Arcadian hostel don’t signify) : “ but it rain- 
ed all yesterday, and our windows were on the 
ground-floor, and the people walking under the 
veranda would stare at us ; and so — and so — we 
came back to-day, you see; and I’m going to 
take Nellie to the ITytaneum to-night. We’ve 
got the stage-box ; and she can sit back behind 
the curtain. Will you come? There’s lots of 
room.” 

I do not know a happier menage than this has 
been, up to the present moment of writing, in a 
quiet domestic way ; or one that holds forth fair- 
er promise of so enduring. 

Now Ramsay did not apprehend that either 
himself or Blanche would grow weary of each 
other in a tete-a-tete , even if it was somewhat 
prolonged ; but he had an objection, on princi- 


ple, to crucial tests, and opined that sufficient 
solitude for all reasonable purposes could be 
found in the skirts, if not in the heart of a crowd. 
If Kenlis Castle had been habitable, he would 
have gone thither straightway ; but there was 
much still to be done there before the bride could 
fitly be brought home. He might have found 
shelter in the country houses of half-a-dozen 
friends ; but Mark was not minded to begin his 
married life by trusting to the mercies of another 
man’s household. On the whole, he thought 
that Paris would be as good a lounging-place as 
any ; and Blanche, when the idea was suggested 
to her, adopted it quite eagerly. So it came to 
pass that their second domestic dinner was eaten 
in the Place Vendome. 

It was one of the close sultry evenings, more 
trying to natural complexions than the glare of 
lamp or sun. Blanche was quite refreshing to 
look upon in her pale-gray dress — relieved at the 
neck and wrist by trimmings of filmy lace — not a 
braid of her smooth soft hair ruffled or awry ; 
and with just the faint flush on her cheek that 
an artist would have chosen to see there. Mark’s 
critical eye took in every point of the picture 
with profound satisfaction, as he realized how 
much more suited to his taste was that demure 
little person than any brilliant beauty of the For- 
narina type, magnificent in redundant outline 
and gorgeous coloring. 

Two days of Blanche’s exclusive society had 
made him more fully aware than he had ever yet 
been how thoroughly pleasant a companion he 
had found. There was nothing impulsive, or 
demonstrative, or expansive about her : though 
it was evident that she liked being petted above 
all things, she was not exacting, or lavish of her 
own caresses. It would have needed a very sub- 
tle analysis to discover a single acid drop in all 
her composition ; but there was no danger, with 
her, of being cloyed with too much honey. The 
very sound of her voice would have been a spe- 
cific for more irritable nerves than Ramsay’s ; 
and the most indolent of talkers deemed it worth 
while to be amusing only to provoke one trill of 
her low laugh-music. 

With these thoughts in his mind, said Mark, 
after sitting silent awhile — 

“ Is there any thing you care particularly about 
seeing here, Blanche ; or are any of your com- 
missions very pressing ? If not, I think we might 
as well move into cooler quarters whilst this heat 
lasts. Fontainebleau isn’t half a bad place : 
there’s always shade in the forest ; and generally 
a breeze somewhere, if you know where to look 
for it.” 

“I’ve never been at Fontainebleau,” she an- 
swered ; “ but it must be quite charming in this 
weather. My commissions can wait ; and as for 
sight-seeing, I went through that penance long, 
long ago, when — ” 

Her face was a little grave as she stopped ; the 
next instant, in spite of herself, she smiled. 

She always thought kindly, if not tenderly, of 
honest Walter Ellerslie. It was with him she 
had lionized Paris when they had been married 
about a year ; and she remembered how each 
morning at breakfast he used to pour over Galig- 
nani as if it had been a new drill-book — wrink- 
ling his forehead, and knitting his brows, whilst 
he mapped out that day’s work — conscientiously 
making a toil of every pleasure, after the fash- 


44 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


ion of a thorough-going British tourist. She 
had plodded through the weary round quite pa- 
tiently then ; but she had not forgotten her thank- 
fulness when it was over. It was partly those 
memories that made her smile ; partly the con- 
trast of the present with the past. Truly there 
was not much fear of any woman, travelling un- 
der Mark Ramsay’s escort, being driven against 
her will into the performance of any duty what- 
soever, much less an irksome one. 

Thus the wise and worldly resolves of this 
pair went for naught, after all ; and a full week 
of their honeymoon was spent, not only in soli- 
tude, but ‘ ‘ under the greenwood tree.” 

It was the very happiest week of all Blanche 
Ramsay’s life. Even had she visited it alone, 
the place would have had great attractions for 
her. She liked intensely the slow drives through 
forest-land, and the long halts under the great 
oaks and beeches, that are just as liberal of their 
shade now, as when the beauties of the old time 
rested there after the ‘ ‘ hallali /” had been sound- 
ed over a hart-royal ; she liked the ugly, formal 
gardens that can scarcely have changed since the 
reines meres rustled along their alleys ; she liked 
the quaint, low-browed courts better than if each 
had been a model of architecture. In this fancy 
she was not alone. 

There are few places that bring up the past 
more vividly, to others besides antiquarians, than 
Fontainebleau. Though time, and neglect, and 
revolution have left their marks plainly enough 
there, a pleasant rococo savor still hangs about the 
place, heightened rather than marred by the res- 
torations of the Citizen King. The double ini- 
tials, “H. D.,” intertwined so tenderly, still look 
almost as fresh as when they were first set up to 
the glory of the superb courtesan who carried the 
garment of infamy as if it had been a robe of hon- 
or. In the Galerie des Cerfs you can stand on the 
very spot where Monaldeschi was done to death 
under the eyes of the Swedish Messalina. Lean- 
ing out of the window of the Queen’s boudoir, 
you touch the espagnolette wrought by the cun- 
ning hand of Louis the locksmith ; and you can 
fancy the smile — half-kindly, half-scornful — with 
which the haughty Austrian paid the labor that 
proceeded of love. Altogether a place fitter to 
dream in, than many to which Art and Nature 
have been more kind. 

Blanche had no drawback to her pleasure, in a 
suspicion that her husband was bored. He had 
seen all these things before, of course; but, if 
they had no fresh interest for him now, it was 
excellently feigned. Blanche could have staid 
another and another week there, without a chance 
of growing weary; yet, when the hot weather 
broke up in rain that looked like lasting, it was 
she who suggested a move back on Paris. It 
was just the instance of womanly tact that Mark 
could appreciate ; and that he could do so he 
showed plainly enough, though his approbation 
was not uttered in words. 


CHAPTER XY. 

There have been many changes in Paris of 
late years, besides those for which the Prefect- 
ure is accountable : old types, no less than old 
streets, have been swept away ; and the British 


resident has not been exempt from the spirit of 
change. 

A quarter of a century ago, he was a decent 
domestic creature, usually of a certain age ; not 
absolutely in embarrassed circumstances, yet 
under necessity of retrenchment ; and always 
bent on ministering to the educational demands 
of a growing family at a reasonable rate. Ccelum 
non animum mutabat. After the first bustle of 
removal was over, he went on contentedly enough 
in his old humdrum way — the right of grumbling, 
of course, always reserved — looking out for his 
special corner-seat at Galignani’s, as he was wont 
to look for the club arm-chair; indulging but 
rarely in the dissipation of a cafe dinner at his 
own charge; and frequenting theatre or opera 
not much more sedulously than he was wont to 
do during a trip to London in the old days. Little 
versed were these quiet spirits in the chroniques 
scandaleuses of the day ; an dmeute in the Quartier 
Breda, interested them no more than a revolution 
in Ashantee. They seldom sought to master the 
intricate idioms of the foreign tongue; and if 
they could steer clear of glaring faults in gram- 
mar, were no more ashamed of their fine broad 
British accent than of any other proof of their 
nationality. 

Amongst them there were always to be found, 
of course, certain roisterers, doing penance for 
past sins and follies in enforced exile ; and not 
hankering the less after Egyptian dainties, since 
they were forbidden to taste the fleshpots. But 
these were the exceptions to the rule; and re- 
garded with little favor by their fellows, who gave 
these black sheep as wide a berth as was consis- 
tent with courtesy — by no means encouraging 
them to frequent the pastures in which their own 
lambkins strayed. 

That modest colony is utterly broken up and 
dispersed now. The remnants thereof have mi- 
grated to Tours, Toulouse, and provincial towns 
yet more remote from the costly capital, where 
the space left for the poor and needy is narrowed 
hour by hour. In their places sit another gener- 
ation of aliens, differing from those sober sojourn- 
ers as widely as Rochester and his crew from the 
worthies of the Commonwealth ; scarcely aliens 
either, if taking art and part in all the vices of his 
adopted country can make out a man’s claim to 
naturalization. 

The Anglo-Gaul at present is a jaunty gallant 
— usually in the flower of his age ; with a full, if 
not a fathomless purse ; lisping out impurities 
with the purest of accents ; and able to answer 
the argot of the coulisses in kind ; found at all 
races within the Jockey Club enceinte ; and, when 
baccarat is afloat at the Cercle des Creves, hold- 
ing his own undauntedly against all plungers — 
Jew, Turk, Christian, or infidel ; in fine, hurry- 
ing down the broad slope of ruin in all respects 
with as easy a grace as if he traced his descent 
from Grammont or Montmorency. No wonder 
that the fair city accords to these strangers with- 
in her gates a very different welcome from that 
which she deigned to bestow on their modest 
predecessors. 

In this especial clique, Ramsay could not ex- 
actly be reckoned. Till quite lately, he had 
been too poor to live their pace, and too prudent 
to hazard a certain break-down ; and since he 
became wealthy, business of one sort or another 
had kept him chiefly on the other side of the 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 45 

Channel. Bat he was thoroughly at home here, I The season was virtually over ; and each day 
and at two Cercles his face was better known the trains starting for frontier or seaboard carried 
than in any London club. | away a heavier freight ; but the Bois was not a 


e! 

W 


I 

feJ 


© 

£ 


o 

o 

« 


H 

£ 




solitude as yet, and a score at least of ancient ac- 
quaintances greeted Ramsay the first. time he ap- 
peared there. The news of his marriage had 
gone before him ; and Blanche had to run the 


gauntlet of many curious glances, before their 
carriage reached the turning-point at the head of 
the lake. On the whole she came out of the or- 
deal very cleverly, 



BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


4G 

“ Un peu palotte ; 7nais (jentille a croquer, avec 
un morbidezza delicieuse — ” said Ame'dee de Beau- 
manoir, a veteran viveur whose valuation of fresh 
faces carried as much weight as the Admiral’s 
judgment of a yearling. 

Coquettes of a certain grade know by instinct 
when they have achieved a success, before a com- 
pliment — ever so delicately veiled — has reached 
their ears. Despite this satisfaction, it was not 
without a sinking of the heart that Blanche real- 
ized, during that first drive, that she must not ex- 
pect to have her husband entirely to herself for 
some time to come. She was not discontented 
or disappointed ; for their tete-a-tete had lasted al- 
ready longer than she had hoped ; and she did 
not feel — much less look or express — surprise, 
when, after dinner that evening, he left her “ to 
look in at the Cercle for an hour. ” A very elastic 
hour ; for it slid into another day, and Blanche 
was sleeping placidly before it ended. At break- 
fast next morning it was so evident that she ex- 
pected no excuse, that Mark never thought of 
composing one. Nothing could be more prettily 
saucy than her smile, as she listened to his epit- 
ome of the congratulations offered him over- 
night. 

Mrs. Ramsay had a long list of commissions 
to execute for herself and others, and she prefer- 
red going about this business alone, she said : so 
they did not meet again till the evening. After 
an early dinner, they went straight to the Bouffes, 
where a famous operetta was being played for 
about the four hundredth time. 

You know that operetta and the fashion there- 
of. Not a very potent or generous liquor fills the 
jewelled cup that the wicked princess waves be- 
fore us so deftly. It has plenty of froth and 
sparkle, and flavor enough to please a not-too- 
curious palate ; and there is small danger of the 
weakest head being turned thereby. Feet and 
hands — to say nothing of eyes — have quite as 
much to do as the lips here : the prima donna , if 
only she be perfect in such arts of provocation — 
though a singer whose compass and sweetness of 
voice Could hardly vie with a Bayadere’s — need 
seldom despair of triumph. 

What would Beaumarchais have said of the 
public that can assist nightly at such a perform- 
ance as this — never craving for novelty, and by 
their persevering enthusiasm giving the claque , 
after the first week, a sinecure ? If he were in the 
flesh again, he might j with some justice, have been 
severe on the derogation of Parisian taste ; but 
wherefore we insulars should shrug our shoulders 
thereat, would be rather hard to say. How many 
times, I wonder, have you and I sat through a 
sensational drama, waiting patiently for the leap 
into a fathomless abyss, that would break the long 
dead-level of dullness ? And how often have we 
gone, Avith a laugh ready cut-and-dried, to reward 
the one dance tacked-on to a patter-song, that gave 
vitality to the Aveakest of burlesques ? Go to ! 
Faith, hope, and charity shall flourish, for many a 
day to come, no less benignly on the hither than 
on the farther side of the narroAV seas — faith in 
our playwrights, hope in their prolific talent 
charity to their shortcomings. 

The sort of thing Avas quite new to Mrs. Ram- 
say, and amused her intensely ; indeed, in the 
opening scenes, there Avas nothing that need have 
called up “the blush on the cheek of a young 
person/’ unless the equivocal jokes of the libretto 


had been carefully studied beforehand. Tt wan 
a croAvcled house ; but one double baignoire ex- 
actly opposite the Ramsays’ box, remained empty 
till the middle of the first entr'acte. Then, with 
some bustle and flourish — as if willing to an- 
nounce their presence to all whom it might con- 
cern — tAvo Avomen occupied it. 

In the appearance of one of these there Avas 
nothing remarkable. Her face in the very first 
freshness of youth might possibly have been 
tempting; but noAv, in spite of cosmetics and 
carefully-disheA'elled false hair, it Avas simply ig- 
noble. There Avas a coAved, sefrile look about 
this Avoman. The flourish of her entry Avas pal- 
pably rather in imitation of her companion than 
an act of self-assertion ; and she hesitated about 
seating herself in front, till an imperious sign 
from the other bade her do so. 

In this evil trade, as in others, there are bank- 
rupts. When Lolotte Lalange’s scanty stock of 
beauty failed, she had not Avit enough to be ei- 
ther dangerous or attractive : she had just sense 
enough to knoAV this : and to knoAv furthermore 
that, if she would find food and shelter and 
clothing thenceforth, she must cease to traffic 
on her OAvn account, and take Avages — ever so 
nominal. Being of a torpid, pliable nature, by 
no means sensitive of affront, and alAA r ays open 
to a peace-offering in any shape Avhatsoever, she 
had thriven thus far tolerably Avell on the bread 
of dependence. In that same bread — especially, 
I fear, if it be dispensed by female hands — there 
must always be a bitter leaAen. Those avIio are 
bound to truckle to the caprice of crabbed old 
maids, or purse-proud AvidoAvs, do not sleep upon 
roses ; but — setting ignominy altogether aside — 
the unluckiest of “companions’’ may Avell feel 
thankful to the Fates that they have spared her 
the endurance of a harlot’s tyranny. 

The other Avoman AA r as a striking contrast, and 
Avould have been remarkable in any place or 
company ; though, after looking at her once and 
again, you might have been puzzled to decide 
where the secret of her famous fascination lay. 

There Avas a good deal of character certainly 
in her face, with its Ioav broad broAV, which the 
strong crisp curls half-covered Avithout shading 
— in the great hard eyes, that seemed as if they 
never Avould blench or soften — in the firm, Avell- 
chiselled nose, Avith nostrils always dilated as if 
they scented prey — in the full crimson lips, curl- 
ing outAvard, so that the level, gleaming teeth, 
Avere never quite hidden — and in the square, 
cruel jaAv scarcely tapering toward the chin. 
But it AA’as essentially an unlovely face — one that 
Avearied the eyes that dAvelt on it, like a garish 
picture. If they had been asked to name its 
antitype in the animal creation, nine men cut 
of ten Avould haA r e pitched upon the tigress. She 
Avas forte femme in every sense of the word. 
There Avas physical poAver in every line of the 
straight throat, the round arms, the ample bust 
— Avhite, and firm, and cold as Carrara marble ; 
but a Avasp-like Avaist only just saved her figure 
from coarseness. 

Such as she Avas, Delphi ne Mareclial had 
Avrought damage enough with her enchantments, 
to become a byword in a land Avhere such sor- 
j ceries are rife. 

The world first heard of her as the Avife of a 
captain of Spahis, in the army of Algiers. Of 
, her birth and parentage, and* of the manner of 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


47 


her wooing, nothing certain was known ; but 
that Eugene Boisragon, on his return from fur- 
lough, brought back a lawfully- wedded wife, 
there was no reason to doubt. Before the sec- 
ond year of their marriage was half spent, there 
were many scandals afloat concerning her. It 
was whispered that long good service, and hith- 
erto stainless repute, did not save a certain gen- 
eral of brigade from sharp rebuke in high quar- 
ters, where such trifles as a liaison are seldom 
noticed. Eugene Boisragon, after a few out- 
breaks of jealous fury that his wife laughed ut- 
terly to scorn, had taken to desperate drinking, 
and was seldom seen sober oflf parade. Men all 
said that something worse than absinthe was 
working in his brain ; and that he was off his 
head long before the last frenzy-fit possessed him, 
when he rode down alone, yelling like a maniac 
as he was, on the thirsty Kabyle yataghans. His 
widow went through no farce of mourning, but 
“ made her packet ” with the briefest possible de- 
lay, and betook herself to Paris — not without 
male escort. From that day forth, she threw off 
the thinnest disguise of respectability, and went 
on her wicked way rejoicing. 

Whether it was some faint scruple of remorse, or 
only a wild whim, that prompted her to drop the 
“ Boisragon,” and fall back on her maiden name 
— Heaven save the mark ! — none could guess : 
but on any note or quittance, she signed herself 
Delphine Marechal. She was much better known, 
though, as “ La Topaze.” Looking at her yel- 
low lustrous hair, and tawny gleaming eyes, you 
were struck at once with the aptness of the so- 
briquet. She was no hypocrite, and disdained the 
common stratagems of her trade. She never 
affected softness or sympathy ; and conquered 
without troubling herself to be winning. When 
her phantasy — and phantasies she had not sel- 
dom — was passed, or when the purse that sup- 
plied her reckless caprice was drained, she dis- 
missed her lover just as she dismissed her lackey ; 
and it would have been as vain for one, as for 
the other, to look for charity or compassion at 
her hands in after-times. Threats or complaints 
or entreaties were all met with the same hard, 
ringing laugh ; and none, so far, had fared bet- 
ter than his fellows — from Achille, Prince de 
Senneterre, who for her sake left a fair young 
bride to pine before the orange-flowers had time 
to wither, down to Leon Gondrecourt, the strug- 
gling sculptor, with a face like an old Greek 
statue, who left her presence for the last time 
with scarcely sous enough in his pocket to buy 
the charcoal that stifled him. She was not par- 
ticularly clever, and passably ill-educated ; but 
was endowed with a rude mother-wit, and a cer- 
tain readiness of repartee. This, added to the 
knfltfm violence of her temper and utter unscru- 
pulousness in revenge, made her much dreaded 
amongst her sisterhood ; so that in most compa- 
nies she took and kept the lead — queening it like 
a thorough usurper. 

Rather royal, in her own fashion, La Topaze 
looked to-night, in a dress that few of her com- 
plexion would have dared to wear — a superb 
maize moire trimmed with priceless lace — with 
emeralds flashing in her tawny hair, and round 
the carved column of her neck, and all over her 
ample white breast. The contrast of color, that 
would have shocked any civilized taste, only 
seemed to enhance her barbaric splendor. Any 


one fond of such parallels would surely have been 
reminded then of the famous Czarina, whose loves 
and wars, more than a century ago, kept all Eu- 
rope on the alert. 

As she entered, there was a stir through the 
parterre, and a murmur that might have been 
mistaken for subdued applause ; and, before she 
had been seated three minutes, a hundred glasses 
levelled at her box answered the challenge of her 
audacious eyes. To nine-tenths of the men pres- 
ent hers was a familiar face. To provincials, 
who saw her for the first time, their neighbors 
pointed out the celebrity, with the sort of pride 
that a Javanese might feel in the exhibition of a 
flourishing upas-tree. 

On this personage Mrs. Ramsay gazed, with 
an eagerness of which she was more than half- 
ashamed. She was no country-bred girl, looking 
for the first time on the world’s wicked ways. 
She had seen Pelagia flaunting in different guises 
in divers places ere now, without shrinking aside 
in holy horror at the sight, or feeling any special 
interest therein; but such a specimen of the 
sisterhood as this, she had never looked upon, 
and she was attracted by it as she would have 
been attracted by any other animal curiosity. 

Whilst Mark, laughing outright at her eager- 
ness, was answering her questions with a brief 
sketch of the antecedents of La Topaze, the door 
of the baignoire opposite opened again and two 
men came in. One, a pale, boyish-looking French- 
man, came to the front at once ; and evidently 
began some explanation or excuse, to which La 
Topaze gave no sort of heed — dashing it aside, as 
it were, with an insolent wave of her fan ; whilst 
she glanced over her shoulder, as if waiting to be 
addressed by the other cavalier, who, after he had 
closed the door, remained leaning against the 
wall, in the shadow. He came forward at last, 
and proceeded to take stock of the house through 
his glasses, in a lazy, leisurely way, before he 
troubled himself to reply to a remark from La 
Topaze, which was evidently either an angry 
question or a sharp reproach. 

A man of proper presence, decidedly, with a 
tall, martial figure, and a face that must have been 
strikingly handsome once, and had not ceased to 
be picturesque, since it grew hard and haggard, 
and marred by a kind of lowering that told of 
evil temper not often controlled. It was a face, 
though, that few women would easily forget when 
they had seen it once. That Mrs. Ramsay had 
not forgotten it, was abundantly clear ; tor, as 
she caught sight of the new-comer, she started and 
drew back hurriedly, saying in a whisper — so low 
that her husband hardly caught the words — 

“ Good heavens ! It is Vereker Vane.” 

CHAPTER XVI. 

In the storehouse of almost every woman’s 
memory — whether it be bare and poverty-strick- 
en, or crammed to the threshold with treasures va- 
ried and manifold — there is kept a special corner 
for her “ old loves.” I do not speak now of those 
who, having been interwoven to a greater or less 
extent in her life-skein, have colored it with deep 
joy or deep bitterness — of those whose names 
never recur without a reminder, regretful or re- 
proachful, of 

How cl o=e to the stars we seemed, 

That night on the sands by the sea. 


48 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


I speak of those who in the old time could scarce- 
ly be distinguished from the rank-and-file of her 
friends and acquaintances, who never caused her 
pulse to flutter uneasily, or her cheek to flush un- 
becomingly; but who nevertheless proffered to her 
once, without stint or limit, the richest gift that 
was in their power to bestow, albeit it found no 
favor in her eyes — I mean, the wooers that wooed 
in vain.. 

If it be a weakness to wrap up these memories 
rather tenderly, it is one to which women of every 
shade of character are prone. It is just as likely 
—rather more likely, indeed — to be found in the 
gravest prude as in the most frivolous coquette ; 
nor does the state of their domestic relations 
seem to have much to do with it. 

The historic Helen was probably not a much 
more conscientious personage than Schneider rep- 
resents her. Yet her heart may have melted a 
little when, from the tower over the Sccean Gate, 
she looked down on the Achrean array, and re- 
membered that each and every one of the chiefest 
there was expiating by exile from home, and peril 
of limb and life, the madness of having once as- 
pired to her hand. 

For an opposite example, take Lady Gatacre. 
That model matron for years has ruled every 
household in her parish with an iron rod — a mer- 
ciless allopath, both in religion and medicine ; 
forcing her doctrine, her physic, and her charity 
down the throats of the poor, whose cottages she 
carries at the point of the parasol. She regards 
all works of fiction as more or less emanating 
from the Father of lies, and romance in real life 
as a folly almost within the pale of sin. An up- 
right woman, s'il en fut — she dresses the charac- 
ter to perfection ; and towers at her board-head 
darkling and stately, not to be lighted up by 
sconce, lamp, or lustre. But, on certain even- 
ings, you may see gleams of scarlet breaking the 
sable monotony of her attire ; and you recognize, 
with a certain astonishment, that the dame may 
have been admired once by such as look favora- 
bly on sombre, severe beauty. On such occasions 
theie sits always on her right hand the head of a 
certain Chapter hard by. The Dean is a rabid 
Protestant, prone to take up his parable, in sea- 
son and out of season, against the abominations 
of the Seven Hills ; but my lady remembers what 
was his favorite color in the old, old times — the 
times when a patient, hard-working curate asked 
a proud, penniless girl to share his fortunes, and 
took meekly, if not contentedly, “Nay” for an 
answer. Good Sir John stands in far too great 
awe of his spouse, to banter her on this or any 
other subject ; but you may see by the twinkle in 
his merry moist eye, how thoroughly he appre- 
ciates her rare concessions to the vanities of this 
wicked world, and rejoices over these vulnerable 
points in the tough Amazonian harness. 

The last time that Vereker Vane stood face to 
face with Blanche Ramsay, he had urged his suit 
for her hand as eloquently and earnestly as it was 
in his nature to speak; and had gone out of her 
presence in bitter anger. If she had ever regret- 
ted her answer then — and I believe she never had 
done so — she surely would have known none such 
misgivings now, in the flush of her own fresh 
happiness, and meeting him thus. Neverthe- 
less, the very proof before her eyes of how far 
he had gone astray, made her remember that she 
might have moulded his life otherwise had she so 


willed it ; and a kind of self-reproach mingled 
with the natural pity of a woman who, having 
parted from an old friend in good estate, finds 
him again, brought very low. 

It may be that something of this showed itself 
in her voice and manner ; for Mark’s smile was 
very meaning, as he answered her exclamation 
recorded above. 

“Vereker Vane, without doubt. So he was 
another of your victims, Blanche ? Why, you are 
nearly as bad as Miladi, in Les Mousquetaires : 
the traces of poison tell us elle a passtf par la. ” 

His tone did not quite please her ; though why 
she misfiked it she could hardly have told. They 
had mutually agreed to pass lightly over the past, 
and to let bygones be bygones. Nothing, in 
theory, could be more convenient and comfort- 
able ; but she would have preferred a little more 
susceptibility — even a little captiousness — to that 
easy indifference. 

The green-eyed monster is troublesome to deal 
with always, and a perfect pest sometimes ; yet 
there be beasts abroad noisomer, or at all events 
more difficult to tame, than he. Mesdames, are you 
sure you would approve of his utter extinction ? 
Would it not be a pity, if there were use no long- 
er for all the sweet sops, and potent charms, that 
are now employed to lull him to sleep ? The zest 
and subtle attraction of danger, you know just as 
well as the boldest matamore of us all. The ram- 
bles of those who walk abroad after their own 
sweet will — unchecked and unwatched — are dull 
as an enforced “constitutional,” compared with 
the stealthy, albeit innocent, sallies of those 
whose footfalls are planted within earshot of a 
dozing dragon. 

It is of masculine jealousy only I have been 
speaking. Feminine jealousy is, as we all know, 
not a ravenous wild-beast, but a virgin, serene if 
stern, — Justice, in fact, under another garb, — 
who never smites unreasonably, unrighteously, or 
on insufficient grounds. 

So, as Avas aforesaid, Blanche felt slightly dis- 
contented, and answered rather more coldly than 
her wont, 

“ Not a victim, in the least ; but I saw a good 
deal of him at one time;. and I liked him Aery 
much in his Avay ; and he liked me well enough 
to ask me to marry him, and too Avell to keep 
friends with me after I said ‘No.’ There’s the 
Avhole story. It Avouldn’t make a chapter in the 
Aveakest romance that eA’er A\'as Avritten.” 

He shook his head, always Avith the same smile 
on his lip. 

“The poison works all the same; but it af- 
fects different constitutions differently, of course. 
What drives one man to drink, drives another to 
the demi-monde. Whether of the tAvo is Avorse, the 
immortal gods alone can tell. Either remedy is 
Avorse than the disease, I should fancy. Vane’s 
face has aAvfully changed, even since I saAv him 
last ; and that’s not long ago.” 

Mrs. Ramsay shrugged her shoulders impa- 
tiently. 

“It’s not a pleasant or improving spectacle. 
I’d rather look at the stage, I think ; though I’m 
not inclined to rave about Herodias .” 

J ust then the second act began. Vane had 
recognized even more quickly than Blanche had 
done, Avho sat over against him. He scarcely 
checked the SAveep of his opera-glass; and his 
left hand, that held it, remained perfectly steady ; 


49 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


but Ills right, resting on the back of La Topaze’s ' 
chair, grasped it so hard and nervously that the j 
chair slightly rocked. He had become almost 
domesticated — if the term could be applied to 
such a life as his — in Paris of late, and took little 
heed of matters on the other side of the Channel. 
Nevertheless, he had heard of Mrs. Ellerslie’s 
engagement to Ramsay soon after it was made 
public in England. lie took the news with an 
outward unconcern, that rather chagrined the 
purveyor thereof — a worthy gossip, who consider- 
ed agreeable intelligence not worth the trouble of 
carrying. He was an ancient comrade of Vane’s, 
and well acquainted with this episode in the 
other’s life ; furthermore, hell ad a grudge of long 
standing against him, and rather reckoned on the 
effect of his little coup. The Colonel only laugh- 
ed boisterously ; and swore with a great oath that 
a better match was never made up down below, 
and that the Devil himself could not tell which 
had the best of the bargain. 

He had been drinking deeply already, or he 
would have scarcely spoken lightly, much less 
coarsely, of Blanche Ellerslie ; but he drank 
deeper yet before the “ little supper” was done, 
and contrived to make himself intensely disagree- 
ble to all who assisted thereat — the news-bearer 
above mentioned being especially set upon and 
overborne. The thought of the engagement, 
whenever it recurred since, had always chafed 
him ; but, as he had not read the announcement 
of the marriage, he never realized till this mo- 
ment that the prize he had coveted was actually 
another man’s chattel. 

With men of Vereker Vane’s temper, these 
realizations are no jest. Not being endowed 
with a very vivid power of fancy, they are less 
tormented than their fellows by the spectral fore- 
shadowing of grief or pain ; but, when set face 
to face with the substance of these, they suffer 
more keenly. It is no figure of speech to say, 
that for the moment Vane was fairly blinded 
with passion : though he swept his glass me- 
chanically backward and forward along the crowd- 
ed boxes, they were all blanks to him, save one 
in which those two faces were framed. Yet it 
was a vague, purposeless rage, levelled rather at 
fate, and the force of circumstances that had 
balked him, than against a flesh-and-blood ene- 
my. If some one had succeeded where he had 
failed, as well this one as any other. He bore 
Mark no greater grudge than a loser does the 
winner, where the stakes are ruinous, and the 
play perfectly fair. 

So, in just the frame of mind to relish the an- 
tics of Herodias — they had made him yawn the 
third time he witnessed them, and this was about 
the fortieth — Colonel Vane sat down far back in 
the baignoire, whence he thought he might watch 
his opposite neighbors unobserved ; for a certain 
savor of good manners, despite of evil commu- 
nications, still clung to the sometime Chief of 
the “Princess’s Own.” The avowed protector 
of the most famous courtesan in Paris was in- 
consistent enough to have scruples about “star- 
mg. 

La Topaze was in no placable humor that 
night. The highest-born dame of the Faubourg 
was not more arrogant or exacting than she. 
She had got a grievance cut and dried ; her cav- 
alier had presumed to dine without her, en ville — 
an outrecuidance only to be atoned for in the usual 


course of things by much contrition, rich bribes, 
or unlimited indulgence of her next whim. Yet 
the offender did not seem in haste to make his 
peace, or even to apologize for being late ; but 
had handed over that trouble to smooth-tongued 
Adolphe — a conscientious parasite, always ready 
to take any troublesome thing, or person, off hi3 
friends’ hands — for a consideration. To be sure, 
she had learned already not to look for any ab- 
ject submission from Vereker Vane; and had 
learned, too, that it was scarcely safe to provoke 
him beyond a certain point. His fierce, over- 
bearing temper had a kind of attraction for her. 
She was sick, even unto death, of the mincing 
ways, petty fractiousness, and languid love-mak= 
ing of les Creves ; and liked her bear’s growlings 
and roughnesses a thousand times better than their 
monkey tricks. Nevertheless she had no notion 
of letting neglect pass unpunished ; and deter- 
mined, if she could not make Vane contrite, she 
would at least make him uncomfortable. 

Facing round with this intent, she marked in 
what direction his glasses were levelled. Indeed, 
he did not disturb himself, or seem to notice that 
she had turned toward him, till she spoke. The 
woman’s instinct, always on the watch for rival- 
ry, added to the cunning of her craft, set La 
Topaze on the scent at once. 

“ My faith, Bruno ” (for some time past the 
cocottes had called him by no other name), “ thou 
art charming this night ! Since when hast thou 
the wine taciturn ? I marvel why thou camedst 
here — Nenni ; I marvel not. It was, apparent- 
ly, to devour the little pale woman yonder. The 
morsel does not seem to me dainty ; but perhaps 
thou hast found it to thy taste ere now. Hein ? 
Art thou touched? Answer, at least, without 
blushing. ” 

Blushing ! It is the fashion nowadays to 
christen ugly things prettily ; but he must have 
been an euphemist indeed, who would have given 
so tender a name to the dark flush on Vane’s 
cheek. In truth, the aggression was singularly 
inopportune. Since that first access of jealous 
rage, his thoughts had turned ifito a milder 
channel. The sight of the quiet pale face oppo- 
site rather soothed than irritated him : he was 
trying to recall the cadences of some low caress- 
ing tones, just as one tries to piece together the 
fragments of a half-forgotten tune. Here, his 
reverie was broken. 

Now the most besotted admirers of La Topaze 
were fain to confess that her voice was not one 
of her chiefest attractions. It was a good serv- 
iceable organ ; clear though not flexile, and 
proof, so far, against the effects of late hours and 
hard living ; but its steely ring — which gave such 
effect to sarcasm or retort — the toughest nerves 
found, after a while, rather fatiguing. How that 
voice grated on Vane just then, would be impos- 
sible to describe. 

He frowned heavily ; and, as he glanced down 
on her, you might have seen the blood mount to 
his eyes. 

“ Leave me in peace, I counsel thee ; and 
leave yonder lady in peace also. Are there not 
cocottes enough here for thee to dissect, that thou 
must fall foul of honest women ?” 

Her broad nostrils dilated; and she showed 
her white teeth — not smiling. 

“ Honest women ! Fine guarantee, my faith, 
for a woman’s honesty, that she should have been 


50 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY: OR. 


an ancient acquaintance of M. le Colonel Vane. 
Our tongues are free to speak of the greatest 
dames in France : I would know, why they should 
spare une petite chipie d' Anglaise” 

The phrase is not easily translatable; nor 
could any verbal insolence be half so expressive 
as the gesture of her lithe fingers. 

Daredevil as she was, a minute later she wish- 
ed her words unsaid ; as Vane rose up, with such 
a darkness on his countenance as she had never 
seen there. She had reason to know, that time 
and place could put no check on his passion 
when it was fairly roused; and shrank within 
herself in mere physical fear. If any mad temp- 
tation to violence assailed him, he controlled him- 
self after one glance at the box opposite ; and, 
taking down his overcoat, went out without ut- 
tering a word, flinging off the hand that La To- 
paze would have laid on his arm as if it brought 
contagion. 

Vereker Vane’s worst enemy might have pitied 
him a little, reading his thoughts as he walked 
away through the empty corridor out into the air. 
He had begun to hate his paramour with the 
sudden intense loathing that, unlike most rapid 
emotions, does not lightly pass away. He hated 
and despised himself yet more; and — desiring 
earnestly, for the moment at least, to escape — 
saw no way out of the shameful maze in which 
he had wandered for some time past. He did 
not walk straight away ; but, though a fine rain 
was falling, paced backward and forward in front 
of the theatre, so persistently as to excite the 
suspicions of certain police-agents hovering about. 
They concluded, from his manner, that he must 
have a worse object than a mere assignation in 
lingering there. 

Standing back in the shadow, he heard after 
a while the coupe of Madame Mare'chal sum- 
moned; and watched her come forth, followed 
by her frightened “sheep-dog” — her very robes 
rustling with passion — and fling herself into the 
carriage with an energy that set the springs a- 
quivering. He waited till they had driven cfff ; 
and began to pace to and fro again, retreating 
into the dark nook when each fresh carriage was 
called up. Ere long a continuous stream suc- 
ceeded the straggling departures ; then Colonel 
Vane thrust his way forward till he stood just 
without the principal doorway, so that he was 
within arm’s-length of all that passed out. 

It was an odd anomaly — one that might have 
furnished a text to a homily-writer, or a sketch 
to a humorist. From youth upward this man 
had been wont to work out his purpose by mere 
strength of will or hand, cutting all manner of 
knots without attempting to unravel them ; from 
sentiment, properly so called, Witikind the Was- 
ter was not more exempt ; and in his breast, 
specially after the life he had led of late, it was 
no more likely that pathos or tenderness should 
be found, than that lilies should bloom on sea- 
sand. Yet his heart fluttered like a bashful boy’s 
as he stood there — waiting to see whether, as she' 
passed out, Blanche Ramsay would appear con- 
scious of his presence or not. He no more 
dreamed of addressing her first, than of offering 
her any other insult. More oddly still — consid- 
ering of whatmanner of man we are speaking — 
passion had .little or nothing to do with his long- 
ing to hear her voice and touch her hand again. 
Rather, it was such a hankering after the better 


and pleasanter days now past and gone, as might 
beset any outcast reminded of these things sud- 
denly by the sight of an ancient friend. 

Before very long the Ramsays came out. 
Blanche chanced to be on the side nearest the pil- 
lar against which Vane was leaning : as he was 
just outside the doorway, she did not see him till 
her dress brushed his foot. She started and 
shrank back a little ; clinging closer to her hus- 
band’s arm. It was no wonder. Vane’s face 
was not pleasant to look upon just then ; and 
hair and beard dank with rain made it more hag- 
gard and wild. He marked the effect he pro- 
duced, and was not a whit angry ; only it was 
something like a groan that he gulped down as 
he stepped back a little to let her pass, slightly 
moving his hat, as if he had made way for an 
utter stranger. But, after a second’s hesitation, 
Blanche held out her hand, with rather a nervous 
laugh. 

“Is it de rigueur , to cut 3'our old friends, Colo- 
nel Vane, when you are living abroad ? You 
are become quite acclimatized, they tell me ; but 
I had no idea you were in Baris. I wonder, at 
least, that you and Mark have not met some- 
where.” 

It was a falsehood, of course — such a one as 
certain moralists would find it very hard to con- 
done — and, that it was a falsehood, the man to 
whom it was spoken knew perfectly well. He 
knew that she had recognized him hours ago ; 
and that she had been made aware long ere this 
— even if she had not guessed for herself at the 
first glance — who and what were his compan- 
ions. But he did not thank her the less ; and let 
us hope that this white lie was covered, like a 
multitude of other sins ; for assuredly it was con- 
ceived in charity. 

The Colonel just touched the little hand, with 
a timid half-pressure — very unlike his usual grip. 

“No: I’ve a pretty good memory for old 
friends, Mrs. Ramsay, even when they have new 
names ; and as for cutting — that would come 
well from me, wouldn’t it ? I seldom look at an 
English paper, somehow, except the sporting 
ones ; and I didn’t knpw that you were actually 
married, much less that you were in Paris ; or 
I’d have hunted you out, and sent the regular 
congratulations, if I hadn’t brought them. Yon 
must take them now in the rough — both of you. 
Ramsay and I, at least, needn’t stand on cere- 
mony. ” 

“Not exactly,” Mark answered; “even if 
pretty speeches were your forte , Vereker. It is 
odd we haven’t met. Never mind : better late 
than never. We’re at the Bristol ; will you 
breakfast there to-morrow ?” 

Vane accepted at once. Three minutes later 
he stood on the pavement alone, watching the 
lamps of a certain coupe gleaming away through 
the mist and rain. 

There were high jinks in the half-world that 
night. Mdlle. Fretillon had lately so far hon- 
ored M. Bonasse, the famous financier, as to ac- 
cept from him a modest mansion hard by the 
Barriere du Trone, — the price of which would 
have bought twice over a chateau and appan- 
ages in Touraine, — and called her friends and 
neighbors together to rejoice over la pendaison 
de la cremaillere. Over the Babel of tongues at 
the supper-table La Topaze’s laugh rang out ; 
and she was unusually brilliant in her pitiless sal- 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


lies — levelled impartially at friend and foe — and 
none entered with keener zest into the lansquenet , 
that raged till dawn. But the door never opened 
without her tawny eyes were turning toward it 
— defiantly at first, then wistfully, hopelessly at 
last— in search of seme one who never appear- 
ed ; and she did not carry it off so successfully 
as to prevent every one there present being aware 
that there had been something more than a love- 
quarrel betwixt her and Bruno. 

“You did that very well, Blanche, ’’her husband 
remarked as they drove homeward. “I should 
have been sorry if you had cut Yane outright. 
He felt himself in a false position this evening, I 
do believe ; and that’s a point gained, at all 
events. He’ll never be thoroughly respectable ; 
but he’s too good still to swell the returns of 
killed and wounded, that La Topaze publishes 
yearly. He certainly left her in the lurch to- 
night. I shouldn’t wonder if he were to break 
with the whole lot if he had a little timely en- 
couragement. Shall we be benevolent, and try 
what we can do ?” 

Blanche assented very readily. But as, lying 
awake, she thought over these things, she was 
haunted by misgivings as to whether her hands 
were strong enough to deal with such a good 
work ; and, more than that, if a blessing was 
likely to attend benevolence prompted by Mark 
Ramsay. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Ox a certain forenoon toward the close of 
that London season, a party of eight sat down to 
breakfast in a pleasant bachelor house in Charles 
Street just as the latest church -bell ceased to 
chime. 

The host was rather a character in his way. 
With eA'ery disadvantage of a start, and retarded 
by more than one early failure, by dint of ener- 
gy, patience, and calculation, he had contrived, 
whilst still in middle age, to climb to one of 
those high places in the mercantile heaven, 
Avhich having attained, an adventurer may 
thenceforth lie beside his nectar, smiling at the 
toil and turmoil below. But Olympian idlesse 
Avould have been irksome to Richard Garratt. 
lie Avas not a Avhit ashamed of his business, and 
applied himself thereto at certain seasons Avith 
the same cautious sagacity as heretofore ; but 
he treated commerce as a master, not as a ’pren- 
tice noAv — taking his pleasure when and Avhere 
he Avould, and taking it, too, right royally. He 
Avas quite aAvare of the weak points in his own 
breeding, and earnestly desired to amend these. 
From the commonplace Aveaknesses of the par- 
venu he Avas singularly free ; but he affected — 
and did not scruple to confess it — the company 
of men likely, directly or indirectly, to help him 
upAvard in the social scale ; and contrived to 
minister to their amusement — their profit some- 
times — Avithout eA r er truckling to their caprices 
or submitting to contumely, hoAvever covert or po- 
lite. A natural tact prevented him from pre- 
suming on good nature or forcing on familiarity. 

The “sAvells,” as he would call them, soon 
found out that Mr. Garratt Avas ready to meet 
his friends cordially on club-ground Avithout in- 
sisting on identifying himself Avith them in all 


51 

places and at untimely seasons ; and that he 
would cast the bread of hospitality freely enough 
on the Avaters, Avithout expecting it to return in 
the shape of invitation - cards to the houses of 
their mothers and sisters. So the circle of his 
acquaintance Avidened daily, till it became quite 
as large as AA'as convenient. Men rather plumed 
themseh'es than otherwise on being asked to one 
of the Sunday breakfasts in Charles Street. In 
truth, they were very agreeable entertainments. I 

However vagrant in his other habits, it must* 
be a strong temptation — sport or business out of 
the question — that will draAv any thorough-paced 
Englishman possessing a fixed abiding-place, 
many yards from his OAvn hearthstone, fasting. 
And in this case there Avas a very strong temp- 
tation. Richard Garratt Avas a born gourmet , 
though his taste had only of late years been cul- 
tivated as it deserved ; neither was his chef un- 
Avorthy of his large hire ; and the guests, culled 
from different sets, amalgamated as a rule very 
fairly. On a Sunday forenoon iii London, few idle 
men, Avho are not church-goers, have any thing 
better to do than sit in judgment on the saA’or of 
delicate meats and wines. No one at these en- 
tertainments descended to tea — or to coffee, un- 
less of the blackest, backed by a chasse. * 

On the right of the host sat Lord Morecambe ; 
the intrepid and insatiable traveller, who had 
thrust his ferret-nose into more out-of-the-AA'ay 
corners of the earth than perhaps any other man 
living. Exploring was his profession ; and he 
Avas just home from Patagonia on a short fur- 
lough, recruiting for an expedition Avhich Avas to 
start from the southern shores of the Caspian, 
and end — indefinitely. A pale, puny, parched 
personage ; and, like many others of his build, a 
voracious feeder. Indeed, his appetite Avas his 
chief encumbrance on his Avanderings ; support- 
ing all other hardships cheerfully, he A\ r axed des- 
perately despondent under famine. 

Next to him Avas Harry Pohvarth — more at 
home certainly on the , boards than in the bar- 
rack-ground ; yet he Avas no carpet-soldier either, 
and none grudged him his brevet step after In- 
kermann. He had been stage-manager to the 
Brigade for years ; and each Avinter made a star- 
ring-tour through country-houses where amateur 
theatricals Avere carried out on a grand scale. 

Right opposite to him sat his subaltern and 
crony, and butt to boot — Terence Tieman ; Avith 
the same bloom on his round smooth pink face, 
and the same mystified look in his innocent blue 
eyes, as Avhen he first joined the battalion ; though 
Iioav he has contrived to preserve any outAvard 
signs of innocence is Avonderful indeed. Rather 
prone to take offense, as a rule, he stands any 
amount of bullying from Polwarth “ like a lamb 
and, in all respects, plays the faithful henchman 
to perfection. 

“I'm aAvfully fond of Terry,” the other once 
averred; “I wouldn’t travel about Avithout his 
photograph for any consideration. To look at 
it in the morning, quite picks one up after a 
night spent in indifferent company. There never 
Avere so many good qualities compressed into the 
same space of flesh and blood ; and — God neA'er 
made such a fool !” 

Besides these, there Avere Jack Raymond — 
most cheery and urbane of vintners — Avno, hav- 
ing got through one fair fortune in the exercise 
of boundless hospitality, is trying, not unsuccess- 


52 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY: OR, 


fully, to build up another by filling other men’s 
cellars ; and Pierce Llewellyn, editor of the 
Scorpion ; with two others whom you have met 
before — Reginald Avenel and Horace Kendall. 

If you could assist invisibly at the assemblage 
of seven or eight of the cleverest men you like 
to name, brbught together for purely convivial 
purposes, do you think you would often listen to 
sustained talk worth taking down ? I fear Nodes 
Ambrosiance are nearly as imaginary as Arabian 
Nights ,• and when they do occur, the “crack ” 
is generally three-handed, or four-handed at the 
outside. Richard Garratt could discourse sensi- 
bly enough on many subjects-— with a lead ; but 
he rarely took a decisive line of his own, much 
less attempted to cut out "work for others. On 
the present occasion his guests seemed to incline 
rather to the consumption than to the utterance 
of good things ; and, though Polwarth was fond- 
er of chaffing than of eating as a rule, breakfast 
was half over before he opened fire on his left- 
hand neighbor. 

You don’t like those sweetbreads a la Mon- 
arque , Morecambe, I can see; for you’ve only 
managed half the dish. You really should con- 
quer your dislike to civilized viands : as it is, 
^ou don’t take enough to support life. Never 
mind : when I come into mine inheritance, and 
you come to stay with me, I’ll kill a fat buffalo, 
and you shall have the hump all to yourself. I 
dare say Garratt would have provided a bear- 
haunch this morning, if you hadn’t taken him 
rather by surprise.” 

‘ ‘ They are both very good things in their way, ” 
the other said seriously ; ‘ ‘ but you must be care- 
ful to bake the hump under a very slow fire ; 
and the bear ought to be killed early in the 
spring, before he gets lean. After all, I think 
the paws are the best part of him.” 

“ Tell us some more secrets of the cuisine 
sauvage,” the other went on. “ What’s the best 
way of dressing a guide, for instance ? En chas- 
seur, I suppose ? Don’t look modest about it : 
you know very w r ell you ate one when you lost 
your way in the Dolichoschian Mountains.” 

Most of the men laughed ; but Tiernan made 
rather a wry face, as he set his fork down with- 
out touching some aspic which he had just taken 
on his plate. 

“ It’s quite true, Terry,” Polwarth continued ; 

‘ £ and they read a short burial-service over the 
poor Iroquois before they put him down to roast, 
just like they do over sailors before they give 
them to the sharks. It was very considerate of 
you, Morecambe ; I’ve always given you great 
credit for it. It shows how, under most trying 
circumstances, a real Christian can keep up ap- 
pearances.” 

‘ 1 It’s very well to joke about it now,” More- 
cambe said, frowning slightly; ‘ £ but the real thing 
isn’t so comic. No ; I never was in the straight 
of having to draw lots for a life ; but I don’t 
know what might have happened once, if we 
hadn’t lighted, by God’s mercy, on a lame deer, 
that was half-dead with famine itself when we 
got up to it in the snow. The night before, the 
men looked at each other very queerly — so queer- 
ly, that I see their eyes still sometimes when I 
have bad dreams.” 

There was not a particle of wounded vanity in 
the speaker’s manner ; only the gravity of a man 
remembering thankfully his escape from great 


peril. No one laughed now ; and Polwarth, foi 
a moment, looked contrite. 

“You’re a game old bird,” he said: “and 
we stay-at-homes are not worthy to unloose the 
latchets of your moccasins. Haven't you done 
enough in your generation in search of the Great 
Unknown ? I'd give something to see you set- 
tled once for all. You wouldn’t be hard to 
please in a squaw ; and More Court would be a 
comfortable wigwam, if it was made weather- 
proof.” 

“ Well, there are one or two other places I 
want to see,” the other returned placidly, mak- 
ing steady play with some Reform cutlets the 
while. “ Besides, I’m too poor to mount an es- 
tablishment properly at home ; and though I 
don’t much care where I sleep, I don’t know 
that I should approve of roughing it under one’s 
own roof. I shouldn’t approve of my wife's 
roughing it, I’m quite sure.” 

“Too poor?” Llewellyn interrupted, shrug- 
ing his shoulders. “ What’s that got to do with 
it? You- may take your oath, your coronet has 
been fresh gilt already, at some time or another. 
Why should you be nicer than your forbears! 
A plumb taken in season, how good is it ! And 
there are several Golden Drops just now, about 
fit for plucking. What do you think of Mary 
Welsted — goes about with Lady Mandrake? 
Jekyl christened her Maria Maggiore — not a bad 
name either. She’s substantial enough, in all 
ways, to prop up a principality, much less a peer- 
age.” 

“A cut above my mark,” Morecambe said— 
“morally, financially, and pl^sically. 1 don’t 
pretend to know much about domesticities : but 
I fancy any husband must sooner or later be in 
a false position, who gives more than three stone 
weight away. I’ve no idea of tying myself up 
yet, either for pleasure or profit, unless I find a 
stray Peri somewhere between the Caspian and 
Cashmeer.” 

Quite lately, by the merest chance, as if he 
had picked up a purse in the street, Tiernan had 
discovered he had rather a good bass voice ; and 
since then he had become a perfect melomaniac 
— ready quidvis facile, aut pati, the better to cul- 
tivate his organ. Kendall, of course, could be 
very useful in this way ; and this was enough to 
account for their sudden intimacy. 

When the name of Miss Welsted was mention- 
ed, Horace had looked up quickly from his plate ; 
and as the last words were spoken, he glanced 
across the table at Tiernan, who nodded and 
smiled in answ-er. 

“What are you grinning at now, Terry?” 
Polwarth asked. “It’s a most extraordinary 
thing, that grave matters can never be discussed 
in your presence without that indecent levity 
breaking out.” 

“I wasn’t grinning,” the other retorted rather 
rebelliously — he didn’t approve of his fin sourire 
being so stigmatized — “ I was only thinking that 
perhaps the Welsted Cup ain’t quite such an open 
race as you imagine. How do you know the 
entries aren't closed already? Ask Kendall 
there : he can tell you something about it, I 
dare say.” 

An awkward pause ensued ; for no one seemed 
inclined to put the question into words, though 
several asked it plainly enough with their eyes. 
At last Polwarth spoke. 


53 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


“ I suppose Terry means we’re to congratulate 
you, Mr. Kendall, if he means any thing at all ; 
that's never move than even betting. Rather sud- 
den, isn’t it?” 

It was a perpetual chafe to Horace, that men 
who seemed to be hail-fellows with all the rest 
of the world would persist in addressing him 
formally. Furthermore, there was sarcasm, if 
not incredulity, in Polwarth’s tone ; yet he an- 
swered sweetly and smoothly. 

*• You won't make me responsible for Terry’s 
indiscretion, I hope” (Polwarth’s byplay on the 
stage was one of the best points of his acting ; 
his start of surprise, and shudder at the famil- 
iarity, wfere perfect). “ What I said to him was 
in confidence, to begin with, and didn’t go half 
so far as you infer. I’m very good friends with 
Miss Wclsted, I’m happy to say; but I don’t 
know that I should care to be more. She’s rath- 
er an overpowering person, as Morecambc says ; 
perhaps she’d be too much for my weak mind. 
Don't you think so, my lord?” 

The peer was a cosmopolite in the largest 
sense of the word. He had the faculty of be- 
coming promptly hand-and-glove with any fel- 
iow-creature, utterly irrespective of race, color, 
or degree; but he could assert himself pretty 
decisively on occasion, as others besides Kendall 
had found out to their cost. 

“ I said nothing about. Miss Welsted’s being 
overpowering. I simply said she was above my 
mark ; it doesn’t follow that she’s above yours ; 
and as to what your strength of mind may be 
equal to, l know absolutely nothing. I judge 
no man’s character on short or slight acquaint- 
ance.” 

The taunt went right home, through the triple 
brass of Kendall’s self-conceit ; but instead of 
teaching him caution, it made him vicious. 

“A thousand pardons,” he said with bitter 
humility, “ for asking your opinion about what 
couldn’t interest you. You'll remember it was 
not I who mentioned Miss Welsted's name ; I 
simply answered a direct question. I have a 
perfect right, I presume, to disavow any present 
intentions in that quarter. Indeed, to form any 
such, one ought to be quite fancy-free.” 

The fatuous smiie. and the still more signifi- 
cant sigh rounding-off the sentence, were so in- 
tensely exasperating, that more than one of his 
hearers felt a keen desire to arise and smite the 
speaker on the cheek. Avenel, who sat next to 
him, could not repress a movement of impatient 
dislike. 

Kendall did not seem to notice the effect of 
his words, but went on nibbling delicately one by 
one the grapes from a bunch that he held in his 
ieft hand, leaning his elbow on the table. The 
sleeve, loose after the fashion of that year, fell 
back naturally from the wrist, leaving the arm- 
let that you wot of nearly bare. It may be that 
Tiernan desired to show that his new intimate 
was a person of more consequence than the rest 
of the company gave him credit for : or he may 
have been prompted only by an ultra-Irish pro- 
pensity to thrust in an importunate oar just when 
rocks and quicksands were ahead. 

iC Fangy-free ?” he said, nodding his head 
again still more sagaciously. “ How can a man 
be free ai all, who goes about manacled ? It s a 
pretty ornament, too. and a pretty idea. Let s j 
have a look at it closer. ” 1 


With a faint show of remonstrance, hardly 
masking covert exultation, Horace stretched out 
his wrist over.the table. There, in bright relief 
on the dead gold, glittered the word “Nina” — 
legible as . ever was record , of female folly since 
the days; of Cadmus. Not half, certainly, of 
those prqsent guessed at the story linked with the 
word : yk all, save^bpep guessed that there was 
somethinig ^fiase and\boastful in the action, and 
despised it accordingly';' E veil jovial Mr. Garratt 
looked on his guest with jlisfaVqr . ^d some ap- 
prehension : he smelt theVstorm a-brewing ; and 
this was the fii^t time*’ that qpiet digestion had 
not waited oq>£ppetite. aV’hi. 3 entertainments. 
But Tiernan 1 s bhfndhring <bead w^, fairly loose, 
and, utterly disregarding the VL’avniug frown from 
Polwarth, he floundered on dee^er^to the mire. 

“Nina — eh ? SNdfckxjommon name, is it ? I 
think we could put "a. ^urnjtme to it, if we chose. 
Perhaps we needn’t go fai; from N to find the 
other initial. I should like to know how you 
came by it, though ?” 

“ Stole it, most probably.” 

If Reginald Avenel had wrought no notable 
good in his generation, he assuredly deserved all 
the blessings that rest on peace-makers. The 
first article of his creed was, that to float on plac- 
id waters was absolutely essential to his person- 
al comfort ; and he had shown considerable tact, 
more than once, in healing disputes that might 
have rankled into quarrels. The most insolent 
and iniquitous of cabmen had never been known 
to provoke him to any thing beyond banter — 
courteous, if severe. If a maroon had exploded 
in the midst of them, his friends could scarcely 
have been more startled than by such an interjec- 
tion proceeding from him. 

Kendall’s outstretched hand dropped on the. 
cloth sharply, as he faced round on the speaker, 
flushing to the roots of his hair. 

“ That’s meant as a joke, I suppose,” he said, 
with rather a lame attempt at a laugh. “ I con- 
fess I don’t quite see the point of it ; and I'll ask 
you to spare me those jokes in future.” 

“It’s meant as nothing. of the sort,” the other 
retorted ; “I never was more serious in my life. 
A man who’s capable of parading such a thing as 
that before half a dozen comparative strangers, 
and, so to speak, thrusts his confidences down 
their throats, is perfectly capable of petty larcen- 
cy, in my humble opinion. It’s a mere question 
of opportunity.” 

Despite the Provem^al blood in his veins, Ken- 
dall was too cunning to embroil himself, if he 
could possibly avoid it, unless the chances were 
heavily in his favor ; hut no choice was left him 
here. He rose up, pushing back his chair in great 
heat and haste. 

“ I didn’t come here to be insulted,” cried 
Kendall. 

“No; you came here to sing, after you had 
finished your breakfast” — Avenel interrupted, 
beginning to peel a peach scientifically; “so 
don’t strain your voice, whatever you do.” 

“I — I tell you,” Kendall gasped out, fairly 
hoarse with passion, “ I could account — nothing 
easier — for how I became possessed of that arm- 
let, if you had any right to ask for an explana- 
tion.” 

“But I haven’t a right, you see,” the other 
| answered coolly ; “ and if I had, I don't know 
| that I should care to press the question. Single- 


54 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


handed testimony don’t go for much — under cer- I Here the host interposed. 

tain circumstances. I 4 * Look here : we ve had more than enough of 



this. It’s an unlucky misunderstanding from 
first to last. You’ll promise me, both of you — I 
know you will — that this shall go no farther.” 

Avenel arched his handsome brows in genuine 
surprise. 


“ My dear Garratt, are you dreaming? You 
talk like Polwarth, when he plays tluflieavy fa- 
ther. Nothing ever does go farther in these days. 
I had very slightly the honor of Mr. Kendall’s 
acquaintance before; and that little I choose 


55 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


henceforth to decline. I’m too sorry that I’ve 
broken up the harmony of the meeting ; and I’ll 
do penance now, by calling on an invalid aunt. 
When I’m gone, you can listen to love-stories as 
long as you like.” 

“ No ; don’t you go, Avenel.” 

Richard Garratt was one of the most good-na- 
tured creatures breathing, and would have gone 
out of his way rather than tread on a worm ; but, 
for the life of him, he could not help laying an 
emphasis on the personal pronoun that would have 
been significant to a duller comprehension than 
Kendall’s. 

“I'll go, ” he said sullenly ; “ indeed, I’d much 
— much rather.” 

Beyond the faintest of formal remonstrances 
from the host, no attempt was made to detain 
him ; and Tiernan — who had assisted at the scene 
with as much astonishment as if he were utterly 
innocent of having provoked it — did not think it 
necessary to bear his maestro company. 

The after-breakfast talk in Charles Street was 
often prolonged into the afternoon ; but to-day 
no one seemed to have energy enough to shake 
off the wet blanket that had fallen on the compa- 
ny ; and the smoking-room was deserted a full 
hour earlier than usual. 

Quoth Polwarth to his subaltern as they walked 
away together — 

“I tell you what, Terry; we’ll have to take 
measures with your music madness. I don’t so 
much mind being driven wild at all hours of the 
day and night by your native wood-notes ” (they 
lodged in contiguous chambers); “but if your 
tongue leads you into bad company, it’ll have to 
be slit, and that’s all about it. A pleasant sort of 
‘ pal ’ you’ve picked up lately — a creditahle sort of 
creature, to be Terry-ing you all over the place, 
and making you his confidant. All that happen- 
ed this morning was more than half your fault. 
What the devil did you mean by trotting him out 
for a show ? Ar’n’t you thoroughly ashamed of 
yourself?” 

And the subaltern was constrained to confess 
that he had indeed “ made a regular hash of it ;” 
and that “Kendall had come out in rank bad 
form ;” and furthermore, to promise that he would 
not again entreat this tuneful person to a dinner 
on guard. 

o 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Avenel’s charitable resolve went the way of 
many other good intentions. His invalid aunt 
waited in vain, that afternoon, for the visit which 
was none of the least of her “ consolations ;” for 
that devout lady — though she would have been 
exceeding wroth had such an idea been suggest- 
ed to her — did in truth prefer the company of 
this graceless nephew to that of more straitlaced 
relatives. Regy went to his chambers, and shut 
the door upon the outer world, in a frame of 
mind very unsabbatical and unsatisfactory. lie 
was thoroughly discontented, not only with the 
aspect of things in general, but also with himself. 
In the first place he held it unworthy of a liter- 
ate person to lose his temper, under any circum- 
stance whatsoever, to the extent of speaking un- 
advisedly. Though he had maintained a decent 
outward show of coolness, he could not deny that 


his anger had passed boiling-point more than 
once — a gross mistake, to say the least of it. 
But there was worse yet. 

Without wearing his heart actually on his 
sleeve, Avenel was more truthful than most men 
who have lived his life. Ilis moral law was suf- 
ficiently elastic ; but the saving of a woman’s 
credit was, in his eyes, about the only excuse 
which could turn a lie into a venial sin ; and in 
such a strait he had seldom been placed. Now, 
this morning, if he* had not spoken a falsehood, 
it is most certain he had acted one. He pitied 
Kendall no more than any other venomous crea- 
ture on which he had chanced to trample ; but 
the fact of his having come out of the encounter 
with flying colors did not make his cause the 
stronger. As a mere question of justice, what 
right had he to hold up the man as a vain brag- 
gart, not to be believed on his oath ; knowing all 
the while that, base as the hint might have been, 
the other was only hinting at the truth ? 

Avenel had seen that armlet before, in a cer- 
tain jeweller’s shop that he was fond of frequent- 
ing — having a great taste for cunning goldsmith’s 
work. He had been first struck by the device 
of the fetterlock ; then by the name embossed 
on the gold ; and — hearing it was for Lady 
Gwendoline Marston, who was expected to call 
for it herself — had bestowed on the damsel a 
waltz that same evening, with the express pur- 
pose of questioning her. 

“ It’s for Helen Tyrconnel,” Nina said coolly, 
though her color flickered as she spoke. “She’s 
my pet friend, you know, and she’s to be married 
next Thursday. No one but her is to know 
where it comes from. Regy — you won’t get me 
into a scrape by telling any one? I hear ser- 
mons enough about extravagance as it is ; and 
this one would be an awful homily. I'll keep a 
secret for you whenever you ask me — I will, in- 
deed.” 

A pretty woman’s confidences are not, as a 
rule, burdens grievous to be borne ; and Avenel, 
though a philosopher in his way, had never 
studied in the Stoic school. He considered 
himself almost as one of the Marston family ; all 
the Platonic devotion that he could spare was 
engrossed by Rose Nithsdale ; and he would no 
more have dreamed of flirting with Nina than 
with any other child-cousin. But she looked too 
bewitching just then to be refused any thing; 
and it would have been too absurd for Avenel to 
have taken up his parable against extravagance : 
so he gave the promise readily enough, and had 
never given the matter a second thought since. 

Now — with his real regret at the girl’s folly 
mingled a twinge of injured self-esteem, as he 
remembered how easily he had been fooled. 
Hood-winking is not pleasant even when per- 
formed by a mistress of falconry ; but it is more 
aggravating still to be blindfolded by a mere 
chit, who ought to be busy with her broidery- 
frame, instead of meddling with lures and jesses. 

Over all these things Avenel meditated, smok- 
ing sullenly the while ; but, beyond a vague im- 
pression that it behoved him to do something 
without delay, he arrived at no conclusion. He 
generally found Nithsdale House within the lim- 
its of a Sabbath-day’s journey; and went straight 
thither on leaving his chambers, purposing, if 
opportunity should serve, to propound the diffi- 
culty to the Countess, 


56 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


Of whatsoever shortcomings in respect to the 
Decalogue this lady may have been guilty, she 
carried out thoroughly at least one of its precepts 
— that of making the Seventh Day a day of rest. 
The attractions must have been exceptional that 
would have tempted her to dine abroad ; and 
not above a dozen names were exempted from 
the general orders of “Not at home” on Sun- 
day. Her boudoir was nearly as full as it could 
hold, according to Lady Rose’s idea, when Ave- 
nel entered — that is to say, three besides herself 
were there assembled. Two of these were men, 
pleasant to look upon and to listen to, or they 
would not have been sitting where they were ; 
and as it chanced — for this was by no means a 
sequitur — no less eligible as partis than as part- 
ners. The third personage was Gwendoline 
Marston. 

Avenel knew the habits of the house well 
enough to be aware that a coterie such as this 
did not break up in a hurry ; and saw no pres- 
ent chance of consultation with Lady Rose ; 
however, if his interest in securing a tete-a-tete 
had been purely personal, he never would have 
dreamt of sulking at its being deferred. Noth- 
ing could exceed the air of domestic comfort with 
which he settled himself into his favorite corner. 

The concentrated wit of all assembled there 
would scarcely have furnished forth one brilliant 
conversationalist ; but they were very pleasant in 
their own way, and relished their mild jokes, 
and harmless repartees, quite as keenly as sager 
and sourer people relish highly-spiced epigrams 
or venomous satire. If the laughter was not 
very discriminating, it rang none the less mu- 
sically. 

Lady Nithsdale was too indolent to take her 
proper share in the talk ; but Nina more than 
made up for her sister’s deficiencies. It almost 
seemed as if the girl had some presentiment of 
approaching danger, and guessed too from what 
quarter the danger came. If she had meant be- 
forehand to coax Avenel into a good frame of 
mind, she could hardly have laid herself out more 
assiduously towards that object, or, to speak the 
truth, more successfully. Regy was not so often 
really amused, but that he could feel grateful to 
any one, male or female, Avho purveyed him such 
entertainment. Before he had sat there an hour, 
he said within himself : 

“ She shall have another chance, though she 
don’t deserve it.” 

And he resolved to bring Nina to confession 
before betraying her delinquencies even to Rose 
Nithsdale. The opportunity presented itself 
sooner than he had reckoned on. Tea was scarce- 
ly over, when Gwendoline said : 

“Will some one put me into a cab, and pack 
me off home at once ? I’m dreadfully late as it 
is. We have to dine at Richmond — at seven, 
of all unchristian hours! And the Buckhursts 
are so awfully punctual.” 

“You’ll walk home in about half the time,” 
Avenel interrupted ; “and I’ll take care of you. 
I’ve over-stayed my time here too — considering 
what I have to do before dinner. You’ll trust 
her -with me so far, won’t you, Lady Rose ?” 

Lady Nithsdale’s eyes opened rather wonder- 
ingly. She was the least jealous and suspicious 
of mortals ; but she was not wont to see Avenel 
so ready with his offers of escort ; and she was 
rather puzzled as to the nature of the business 


which could call him away from her boudoir so 
peremptorily on a Sunday afternoon. She bit 
her lip, ever so slightly, as she answered : 

“0 yes: I can trust you— so far. I don’t 
think either of you will get into mischief, be- 
tween here and Carrington Crescent. What 
you’ll do afterwards—” 

So those two went off together. When they 
were fairly in the street, said Avenel : 

“ Have you heard from your pet friend lately, 
Nina? You know who I mean, of course — 
Helen Irnham, n&e Tyrconnel. Do you know 
where she is now ?” 

“I haven’t heard very lately,” she replied; 
and once again her color flickered; “but I 
know she’s in Paris. They went over before the 
Grand Prix, and won’t be back for another ten 
days at least.” 

“You think so? Then you’d be very much 
surprised if I told j*ou that I met her at break- 
fast this morning — at a bachelor breakfast, too — 
in the Albany. Odd place to meet a bride in — 
wasn’t it ? Irnham’s an easy-going creature ; 
but I doubt if he’d approve. ” 

In a bewilderment that could scarcely have 
been feigned, she stopped short, gazing ap at 
him. 

‘ ‘ What utter nonsense you are talking ! What 
can you possibly mean ?” 

‘ ‘ Don’t strike an attitude, ” he retorted. “You 
can hardly have learnt to be theatrical — already. 
I’m talking perfectly good sense, though in rath- 
er a roundabout manner. You gave that armlet 
to Helen Irnham, you know. Well : I met the 
wearer of it, precisely at the time and place I 
have mentioned. I recognised it directly. If I 
hadn’t, I and half-a-dozen more might have ex- 
amined it at our leisure. It has changed own- 
ers, perhaps you’ll say. No : I don’t think you 
will say that, though ; or that you will say that 
you don’t know now what I mean.” 

Walking on by his side, she looked up again 
— very pale this time, but without a sign of 
flinching. Her lips moved before she spoke 
aloud. An ear laid close against them might 
possibly have caught three syllables — 

“ How could he !” 

“You’re quite right, Regy, ’’she said aloud. 
“I’m not going to tell you any more falsehoods. 
I know what you mean very well. The bracelet 
has always been where it now is. I’m not sorry 
for that ; but I’m very sorry that you have seen 
it, and seen it — so.” 

She could scarcely have gone on for the chok- 
ing in her throat ; but Avenel broke in here — 

“ You didn’t reckon on his parading it, then? 
Why, those novellettes you’re so fond of might 
have given you a better insight into the jeune 
premier form. He didn’t steal it, after all? 
I’m rather glad I suggested the possibility, 
though. ” 

The fire, slumbering always in the depths of 
the Spanish eyes, flashed out. 

“ You said that, knowing all the while it must 
be a base, cruel falsehood. How dared you ?” 

“There wasn’t much daring required,” he 
said rather scornfully; “and if there had been 
— though I don’t pretend to be a champion — I’d 
have tried to screw my courage up to the stick- 
ing -point, to stop the name of your father’s 
daughter being made a shuttlecock for the 
amusement of such a company. ” 


57 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


The girl laughed insolently. 

“My father’s daughters are infinitely obliged 
to you. Such disinterested kindness is quite 
touching ; I don’t know what we can have done 
to deserve it. Don’t you think the taking care 
of Rosie’s reputation is about as much as you 
can manage ? What is the disgrace if my name 
was coupled with his — just as if he were not bet- 
ter — cleverer — dearer in all ways — than the best 
of } r ou!” 

Iler passion moved him no more than if Lady 
Nithsdale’s pet lory, which he was always teas- 
ing, had pecked him rather sharply. 

“I wouldn’t take the passers-by into my con- 
fidence if I were you, however proud you may 
be of your secrets. That respectable couple 
nearly dropped their prayer-books, and looked 
quite scandalized. Child, all your heroics won’t 
make a hero of Mr. Kendall. Troubadours are 
at a discount, even in Provence, just now. I 
don’t abuse him, mind. I know nothing of who 
he is, or whence he comes ; and, if what I’ve 
heard is true, perhaps he couldn’t give us much 
information on these points himself. But I 
know, that if he were all you say, and more, he’s 
not a fit person to be flashing about gages d amour 
— or damitie either, for that matter — from 
Gwendoline Marston. However, we won’t dis- 
cuss the question any farther. It isn’t likely we 
shall agree ; and, as you very properly observe, 
it’s no concern of mine. I suppose it does con- 
cern slightly your mother and father, though. 
We’ll refer it to one or both of them, if you 
please. ” 

She stopped short once more — luckily the 
street was nearly deserted just there — clasping 
his arm with both her hands ; so that, without 
actual violence, he could scarcely have stirred 
from where they stood. The same terror was 
in her face ; but the threat of betrayal worked 
far more powerfully now than when, two months 
ago, it brought her, outwardly at least, to sub- 
mission ; for, with the dread of being separated 
from him, there mingled a vague apprehension 
of insult or injury imminent over Horace Ken- 
dall. The big drops gathered slowly in her 
eyes ; and there came into them the expression 
— at once piteous and desperate — that may be 
seen in those of a deer brought to bay on a 
crag’s -edge, where the sole chance of escape 
from the hounds is a leap into the air. An old, 
old simile that ; but an apt one, nevertheless. 
Those who have ridden straight from the find 
under Dunkerry Beacon to the finish on the 
Channel cliffs, can bear witness that the first 
half of the parallel is no flight of fancy : the sec- 
ond, I fear me, will hold good to the break of 
the Millennium, when womanhood shall have no 
more sorrow. 

“You won’t do that, Regy,” she said at last 
in a faint voice ; “ not just yet, at least. You’ll 
give me a week ; well, then, three days — just 
three days. I promise — I swear — I won’t do 
any thing rash ; and I’ll tell you honestly what 
I have done. Of course you are right; of 
course they’d lock me up rather than let me see 
him ; and I’m so helpless : but I must, I must 
tell him in my own way that it’s— that it’s all 
over.” 

To Avenel’s consternation — for under the 
most favorable circumstances of time and place 
he dreaded a scene — she fairly broke down here. 


How at that moment he regretted ever having 
meddled at all, is not to be told. His first im- 
pulse — rather a cowardly one, it must be owned 
— was to calm Nina at any price ; but he really 
pitied her besides. 

“For God’s sake don’t do that!” he said im- 
ploringly. “ I don’t want to bully you, if you’ll 
only be reasonable ; or to get you into a scrape 
either. I never told tales of man, woman, or 
child yet. There, I’ll take your word, and keep 
your secret ; but you’ll set all straight, like a 
good, sensible girl, won’t you ? You'll thank me 
for this one of these days.” 

As she dropped his arm, and moved on again, 
she smiled up at him through her tears — a 
quaint, sad smile. 

“Perhaps I may. I thank you now, at all 
events ; and you sha’n’t repent trusting me, 
Regy.” 

Not another word Was spoken till they reach- 
ed Lord Daventry’s door. As her escort was 
about to ring, Nina laid her hand on his wrist. 

“ Only one thing — you won’t do, or say, any 
thing that could hurt him ?” 

Avenel prided himself, with great reason, on 
the evenness of his temper ; but, for the second 
time that day, it was fairly ruffled. The obsti- 
nacy, and wanton waste of solicitude, were more 
than he could bear. He shook off the little 
hand with a certain roughness, and rang the bell 
sharply. 

“I’m not in the habit of abusing people be- 
hind their backs ; and Mr. Kendall and I are not 
on speaking terms.” 

He walked away without further ceremony, 
leaving the damsel planted somewhat disconso- 
lately there. A lively Richmond dinner, I sup- 
pose, is rather the exception than the rule ; but 
few of us have undergone such a penance as that 
evening’s entertainment proved to Gwendoline 
Marston. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Morning in Kensington Gardens again ; but 
mornings follow, and resemble not each other. 
On such a day — for it was not summer always, 
even in Arcadia — the Loving Shepherd’s pipe 
could hardly have been attuned to sonnets, nor 
would Daphne have shown much indulgence to 
his lagging muse. Not a break or gleam in the 
dull leaden sky — not a breath of breeze to clear 
the murky air — not a whisper from the sullen 
elms. 

I think we hardly realise sufficiently the effect 
of atmospheric influences in this curious climate 
of ours ; nor how they affect persons to whom 
“nerves” — in the common acceptation of the 
word — are things of theory. Years and years 
ago, when, during the decline of the P. R. , there 
still were fights without crosses, on the eve of a 
famous battle, I heard a gladiator say, speaking 
of what the morrow would bring forth : 

“ I hope it’ll be gay weather. I’d chance the 
sun in my eyes, for a real heartsome morning.” 

To the criminals pacing to and fro in the pris- 
on-yard for a half-hour on their enforced consti- 
tutional, do you suppose it matters nothing, 
whether the square parch of sky above be bright 
or lowering? There are days on which good 
news, however agreeable the surprise might be, 


58 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


would come to most of us colored with a certain 
inconsistency. 

On this especial morning it is more than doubt- 
ful if Horace Kendall would have received the 
pleasantest intelligence gratefully or graciously. 
It was just twenty-four hours since that break- 
fast-party in the Albany broke up. He had been 
gnashing his teeth, so to speak, ever since, over 
the recollection thereof. One of the attributes 
of natures such as his, is a proneness to shift their 
own burdens on to any other shoulders whatso- 
ever ; and never, by any chance, to blame them- 
selves for any mishap or mistake, whilst it is bare- 
ly possible to throw the responsibility on friend 
or foe. In Horace’s composition there were no 
such things as fine feelings ; but, from mere per- 
sonal vanity, he felt contumely quite as keenly 
as many endowed with more delicate sensibility. 
If he had looked the matter fairly in the face, he 
must have acknowledged that all that befell yes- 
terday was the result of his own Juanesque pos- 
ing ; and that the display of the armlet was no 
more accidental than any other planned stage- 
trick. But looking things, or people, in the face 
is precisely what men of his stamp will not or 
cannot do. He hated his host for not taking his 
part ; Tiernan, for the unlucky question that pro- 
voked the debate ; each and every one of the as- 
sistants thereat for being witnesses — not ill-pleas- 
ed witnesses either, he fancied — of his discomfi- 
ture : most savagely of all, of course, he hated 
Avenel ; but he would sooner have accused 
Gwendoline Marston of bringing him to grief 
with her romantic whims than imputed to him- 
self a tittle of blame. 

Yet if he were not troubled with self-reproach, 
Kendall spent about as uncomfortable a Sabbath 
afternoon as can well be conceived. He too 
went straight to his own rooms, and did not stir 
forth till the evening ; when he was engaged to 
dine out. It was a large party, made up of an 
exclusively musical set. It was odds against 
any one there present having been made aware 
of his misadventure in the morning ; neverthe- 
less, Kendall felt as if every glance that dwelt 
upon him for more than a second’s space was 
either inquisitive or derisive : when there was 
low talk and laughter at the farther end of the 
table from where he sat, he grew hot at the sus- 
picion that he himself furnished matter for the 
jest. He could not well refuse to sing ; but one 
attempt showed so plainly that his plea of not 
being in voice was no formal excuse, that the 
mistress of the mansion forebore to press him 
further. Horace was right glad to get back to 
his own rooms again. Intemperance was not 
among his vices ; but his nightcap that evening 
would have fitted a much more seasoned head ; 
and even this procured only feverish and broken 
sleep. 

Few men, indeed, reach their life’s end with- 
out having cause to remember what it is to wake 
with the consciousness that trouble is lying in 
wait just beyond the threshold of the day. Most 
of us know only too familiarly that “evil quar- 
ter-hour,” and the manner thereof: how there 
comes at first a vague impression of something 
having gone very wrong ; and how that Some- 
thing looms nearer and larger, like the images 
of the phantasmagoria, till it confronts us in full, 
it may be in exaggerated, proportions. Certain 
adventurers, they say, in the course of warfare 


with the world, become proof against this, 
amongst other human weaknesses ; but, fortu- 
nately for society, such mighty Adullamites are 
rare. A racking headache did not improve the 
color of Kendall’s morning meditations. Not 
without a misgiving of what the post might have 
in store, he reached out his hand for his letters. 
Only one, as it happened, was of the least mo- 
ment ; and was brief enough in all conscience. 

At eleven , in the old place. You must be 
there. N. ” 

That was all. Nothing, one would have 
thought, to make his hand shake as he read the 
note and cast it down beside him with an oath. 
With what, or with whom, he was angry he him- 
self could scarcely have told you : that curse was 
not levelled at any one head in particular ; but 
things in general seemed going contrary ; and, 
with men of his kind, blasphemy is the readiest 
panacea. 

That the note had something to do with the 
occurrences of yesterday morning, he felt sure. 
How could she have heard of it, though ? Av- 
enel had told her probably — this time the malison 
had a mark. If it were only Nina’s anger, he 
could set that square easily enough ; but suppose 
Lady Nithsdale had been told too ? This would 
complicate matters considerably. It would come 
to Lady Daventry’s ears next, and then — Well, 
he would hear the worst or the best of it soon ; 
and there was not much time to spare, if Nina 
was not to be kept waiting ; which, under the 
circumstances, might be hardly advisable. She 
might just as well have made it an hour later, 
though. 

Grumbling to himself in this wise, Kendall 
arose ; made a careful toilet, though not quite 
so scientific as usual — he had become a thorough 
petit-maitre of late — swallowed a cup of coffee, 
more as an excuse for the chasse than for its own 
sake ; and reached the trysting-place a minute 
or so before the appointed hour. As he put his 
watch back after ascertaining this, he saw Gwen- 
doline Marston approaching. Kendall’s percep- 
tions, when his own interests or inclinations were 
not immediately concerned, were not very keen ; 
but, as the girl drew near, even he guessed that 
it was not only to upbraid him that she had sum- 
moned him thither. Her head, instead of being 
lifted in eager expectancy, as it was when they 
met there before, was bowed dejectedly ; and her 
step, as she came slowly across the grass, was 
liker a sick woman’s than that of a girl with 
Spanish blood in her veins. 

“What has happened ?’’ Horace asked, as he 
took her hand in both his awn. He had intend- 
ed to treat the matter in a light, off-hand way ; 
but when it came to the point, his nerve failed 
him. It was evident enough, from his manner, 
that he divined the nature of her news. 

“Can’t you guess? Have you forgotten yes- 
terday morning already ?” 

In her tone there was nothing of reproach or 
scorn, only intense sadness : nevertheless, he 
dropped her hand at once, and his countenance 
fell. 

‘ ‘ So you have heard of it — his version too — 
and you have come to take his part now ? His 
conduct, of course, was chivalrous, and all the 
rest of it ; and mine — ” 

“You are quite wrong,” she interrupted, al- 


59 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


ways in the same quiet, sad voice. ‘ ‘ So little 
was told me, that I can only guess at what was 
said or done ; and you would not say that I took 
his part, if you had heard me speak yesterday. 
That fetterlock was a very foolish fancy of mine, 
I know ; but I never thought that any one be- 
sides you would have laughed at it.” 

“ I never meant to show it. I can’t help it, 
if you choose to make an unpardonable sin out 
of a mere accident.” 

His eyes were bent sullenly downwards as he 
spoke ; but it needed not to look into them, to 
know that he was lying. Some such conviction, 
perchance, was borne in upon Nina, despite her- 
self ; for she answered only the last words. 

“I have nothing to pardon, dear; you have 
not sinned against me. It was not because I 
am ashamed of caring for you that I begged you 
to be cautious. It was because I felt there would 
be dreadful danger if any one else were taken 
into our secret. I didn’t hear who else besides 
Regy Avenel were present; but we are at his 
mercy, at all events. Now you know what has 
happened.” 

“Curse his insolence!” he said viciously. 
“What right has he to dictate to me, or to set 
himself up as your protector? He shall suffer 
for this somehow, by !” 

She shrank away from him now. 

“Hush! I should hate to hear such words 
from you, even if they could help us in the least. 
I don’t say he’s any right to interfere ; but if he 
thinks he has, it comes to the same thing. He 
won’t be frightened into silence, I’m very sure. 
It was all I could do to get three days’ grace. 
He won’t betray us till I’ve seen him again : he 
won’t betray us at all, if I act, as he calls it, 
‘ sensibly. ’ ” 

“Sensibly! That means giving me up for 
good and all. Well, it’s a modest condition, and 
not hard to fulfil. That’s what you are driving 
at, I suppose ?” 

As she gazed up at him her eyes brightened, 
not with the gleam of quick excitement, but with 
the steady light of resolve. 

“ So hard — that I think I would die before I 
would promise any such thing. We must have 
patience and faith, dear — that’s all. We must 
not meet again, except by accident, for a long, 
long time. Indeed, indeed we have no choice. 
I’ve not been very carefully watched hitherto ; 
but, if this were known at home, I should be 
simply a prisoner, till they had made sure that 
we were parted for ever. You know this as well 
as I do — don’t you, now ? I’m miserable enough 
as it is, without your being unjust and unkind.” 

He stood silent a while, debating what he 
should answer. A strong temptation just then 
assailed him ; the temptation to test his power 
over Nina there and then — to try whether he 
could not induce her to cast in her lot with him 
at once, by consenting to an elopement so soon 
as opportunity should serve. He did not mis- 
trust his own eloquence ; and she had never look- 
ed so attractive as at this moment. To a man 
of his vainglorious temperament, the notoriety 
of such an adventure was in itself a strong in- 
ducement : nevertheless, he forbore. Thinking 
over these things afterwards, he took infinite 
credit to himself; yet pity or generosity had 
wonderfully little to do with it. The safety of 
his own precious person was with Kendall the 


chiefest of all earthly considerations. He had a 
strong impression that the Law might call his 
romantic escapade by some uglier name, that 
Avould render him amenable to all manner of 
penalties. Furthermore, he argued within him- 
self that he and his bride would have to feed al- 
most literally on crusts till such time as it should 
please the Daventrys to condone the offence; 
and after all, now and then, such monsters as pa- 
rents indefinitely relentless will sometimes out- 
rage dramatic proprieties. If the whole truth 
must be told, there was in the background of his 
meditations a certain figure — not a comely one, 
albeit a woman’s — whose stout ’forefinger was 
first raised in warning, and then pointed to a 
goodly pile of money-bags. On the whole, he 
came to the conclusion that the forward game 
was scarcely suited for his resources ; and that 
the best policy would be to yield, as gracefully as 
might be, to the force majeure. Whilst he thus 
reflected, his anger had full time to cool. The 
charlatan was himself again, and fell into his 
theatrical mannerisms quite naturally. His fa- 
cial muscles were remarkably well-drilled ; and 
his plaintive expression of self-sacrifice might 
have imposed on a keener critic than poor Gwen- 
doline Marston. 

“It was too bad of me to speak so,” he said, 
almost in a whisper. “But this is such very 
sharp pain ; and it has come on me so suddenly. 
Not to meet again for a long, long time ; so long 
that we can put no limit to it now. Do you 
know what that means — for me ? It means that 
the aim is taken utterly out of my life ; and that 
I wander on henceforth without hope that to- 
morrow will be brighter than to-day. It means 
that I must not think of you as mine any more 
except in my dreams ; that I ought not to wear 
this any longer” — he stroked the armlet tender- 
ly — “because, before I see you alone again, 
some one else may have a better right to wear it. 
It means all this. I don’t murmur or rebel : I 
would bear a hundredfold more sooner than bring 
any trouble on your head. I will not even blame 
you if you forget me. For you will not be like 
me ; you will often be tempted to forget.” 

It was a pretty recitative enough, and grace- 
fully delivered too. Nevertheless, not a few wo- 
men, deeming the sentiments something too sub- 
lime, and the periods something too neatly turn- 
ed, to have come straight from the heart, would 
have requited the effort by a smile. But every 
word came to Nina’s ears with the golden ring 
of truth. The last three months, measured by 
their influence on her character, might count for 
years ; but, though she was a Avoman hoav in en- 
ergy of purpose and strength of mind, both to 
dare and to endure, she Avas in many Avays the 
veriest child still — just as prone to invest her 
taAvdry idol Avith all manner of god-like attri- 
butes as Avhen she first boAved down before him. 
As she looked on Horace Kendall, it seemed to 
her that she looked on the sublimity of devotion ; 
and the tears, that had gathered more than once 
during the intervieAv under the long dark lashes, 
began to rain doAvn fast. She boAved her face 
upon his arm, murmuring, as she pushed the 
armlet back on his wrist : 

“You Avill ahvays keep it ; you Avill not for- 
get?” 

“ I never will. I never can.” 

'The spot of their meeting Avas well chosen. 


GO 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


The trunk of a huge elm screened them from 
most passers-by ; and on such a morning there 
were few loiterers in the gardens. Nevertheless, 
there is a time and place for all things ; and the 
cavalier, even if the lady had lost her head, might 
certainly have remembered that the pose was such 
as ought only to be rehearsed intrci muros. 

But Horace took no heed of such trifles as he 
launched forth into a fresh tirade. Perhaps the 
girl’s passion was really to some extent infec- 
tious : but Kendall dearly liked the sound of his 
own voice ; he was in the vein that morning ; 
and it was not likely that so fair a chance of air- 
ing his eloquence would soon again present itself. 
Moreover, though he judged it politic not to put 
his hold on Nina to the breaking-strain, he had 
no mind it should be loosened, except in his own 
good time. So he poured forth a string of prom- 
ises, consolations, and endearments, much to his 
own satisfaction, and greatly to his hearer’s com- 
fort ; for, whilst he was still in mid-career, Nina 
lifted her head, half-smiling, as she dried her eyes 
with an absurd little filmy kerchief, that never 
was meant for such serious work as the stanch- 
ing of tears. 

‘ ‘ Practising for private theatricals, I presume, 
Nina? Will you present me to your dramatic 
friend ?” 

A» the words were uttered, the speaker un- 
masked himself from behind the trunk of the 
elm. 

Horace Kendall was fond of stage-effects, as 
you know. But in his programme it was not 
set down that he should find himself face to face 
with Raoul, Earl of Daventry. 

» 

CHAPTER XX. 

Some one — an eminent divine, if I mistake not 
— once valued a thoroughly good temper at £500 
a year. If such things were marketable, Lord 
Daventry’s ought to have commanded a fancy 
price. His had not been one of the level, une- 
ventful lives that cause men to laugh and grow 
fat ; almost all his pleasures, from youth up- 
wards, had been more or less fraught with dan- 
ger, moral, physical, or financial ; and he had 
generally indulged his fancy without counting 
the cost or consequences. Nevertheless, few 
could say that they had seen the peace of his 
great brown eyes troubled by impatience or an- 
ger : as for fear — the Marstons, male or female, 
had not been hampered by that weakness for 
some generations past. It was quite a treat to 
see him go in to back one of his own horses for 
a stake at a large race-meeting. The layers of 
odds knew pretty well when Lord Daventry 
meant business ; and, before he opened his 
mouth, would gather round him ravenously. 
Amidst all the turmoil and uproar, there he 
would stand, a perfect picture of repose, re- 
minding one of the beautiful sea-birds that, in 
wild weather, may be seen rocking betwixt pur- 
ple billows. Through the clamor of many voices, 
hoarse and shrill, you would catch sometimes his 
clear, quiet tones : 

“In hundreds? Yes, you may put it down 
again. And once more with you , Mr. Irons. An 
even monkey to finish with ? Thanks, that will 
do; no more.” 


And then he would close his book, and saunter 
off to look at the race, with less apparent inter- 
est in the result than any man on the ground. 
He was not at all nice in the choice of his com- 
pany ; and, if he had any purpose to serve, would 
just as soon be seen in earnest converse with 
a clever outsider as with the most venerated of 
turf magnates ; but somehow he seemed to have 
acquired the secret of touching pitch without be- 
ing defiled. He never dreamed of keeping any 
one, gentle or simple, at a distance ; yet perhaps 
not twice in his life had he had occasion to repress 
insolence or familiarity. 

‘ ‘ I wish I’d your knack of keeping people in 
their places. It’s all that infernal quiet manner, 
I suppose ; but it ain’t so easy to master.” 

Thus would grumble Sir John Pulleyne — en- 
vious, and not without cause; for that blatant 
baronet, when he cursed jockey, trainer, or pro- 
fessional, not unfrequently got to the full as bad 
as he gave. Even at whist, the Earl never visit- 
ed the most atrocious fault in his partner more 
severely than by a slight shrug of the shoulders 
and a compassionate smile. Once — the blunder 
was an excepional one, and had cost him some- 
thing over two hundred sovereigns — he was heard 
to say reflectively : 

“I’ve been at it now for about thirty years; 
and I’ve come to the conclusion that play rather 
tells against one than otherwise.” 

But this remark was not made till the rubber 
had been some time over, and it was murmured 
too low to reach the ears of the offender. Neither 
was he one of the “angels abroad and devils at 
home” that seem to be less uncommon since cigar- 
ettes and absinthe came in. His wife had always 
had quite as much of his attention and society as 
she cared to claim : though he never interfered 
with the actual management of his family, he 
liked to have his children with him ; and, when 
he had leisure, was always willing to minister to 
their amusement. 

Of all the unlucky coincidences in life, the 
most frequent, certainly, is the unwelcome pres- 
ence of the “very last person one expected to 
see.” Lord Daventry’s presence here was pure- 
ly accidental. He had business to transact that 
morning with a famous turf commissioner, and, 
for reasons best known to himself, had chosen 
to confer with this potentate at the latter’s own 
house in Tyburnia. His nearest and pleasantest 
way back from the interview lay through Ken- 
sington Gardens ; and, as it chanced, it led him 
within a few yards of the trysting spot. His 
friends were wont to deny that any thing could 
possibly surprise Daventry ; but this opinion 
might have been modified by whoso had read 
his thoughts when he first recognised the female 
figure in the interesting group over against him. 
It was a breach of delicacy, of course, to approach 
unobserved, and to listen to sentiments never in- 
tended for his ears ; but, I think, few British pa- 
rents, under the circumstances, would have acted 
more chivalrously. 

Being such a manner of man, you may guess 
that there was nothing very awful in the demean- 
or of Nina's father, though his appearance did 
savor of the Deus ex machina ; but, if he had de- 
scended from the clouds with all the attributes 
of Jupiter Tonans, the pair before him could 
scarcely have been more startled. Their first 
impulses of surprise were thoroughly character- 


61 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


istic of the two. Horace stepped a pace back- 
wards ; Nina drew ever so little closer to her 
lover’s side. She spoke first, too ; though it was 
in a very faint, unsteady voice that she named — 

“Mr. Kendall.” 

The Earl lifted his hat. With whomsoever 
he was dealing, he could not for the life of him 
omit any form of courtesy. If, during the Reign 
of Terror, he had been forced to pass through 
Sanson’s hands, when they first met face to face 
he would not have failed to salute the headsman. 

“ One of the west-country Kendalls?” he said 
interrogatively. “No? That is the only family 
of the name with which I’m at all acquainted. 
Ah, now I remember ! I have heard of a Mr. 
Kendall with a wonderful voice. Have I the 
pleasure of speaking to that — person ?” 

The pause before the last word was just long 
enough to give it point — no longer. Horace’s 
scattered thoughts had not rallied sufficiently to 
enable him to do more than bow an assent to the 
suggestion. 

“Exactly so,” the Earl went on. “This 
daughter of mine seems to have a good deal of 
dramatic talent, and I suppose you’re assisting 
her to cultivate it. We’re infinitely indebted to 
you, I’m sure. Nina, my dear, I think you’ve 
had about enough rehearsing for one morning. 
You found your w r ay here alone, I presume, and 
I have no doubt you could find your way home 
just as easily ; but there’s no necessity for that. 
Will you be kind enough to sit down there” — he 
pointed to an unoccupied chair about fifty yards 
off — “till I’m ready to escort you? I sha’n’t 
detain Mr. Kendall ten minutes; but what I 
have to say to him I don’t choose you to hear.” 

Very keen, according to the poets, are the 
perceptions of hate and fear ; yet are they much 
keener than those of any true woman, when it is 
a question of pain, or # peril, or even discomfort, 
impending over the man who has the keeping of 
her heart? What caused Nina to apprehend 
that her lover might fare ill, if left unsupported 
to the tender mercies of her urbane sire, would 
be rather hard to say ; but, having such a mis- 
giving in her mind, her first impidse follows as a 
matter of course. The wound may be but skin- 
deep, and he for whom it is incurred is not al- 
ways cognizant thereof; but wonderfully often, 
in the tragedies and comedies of this life of ours, 
that scene is enacted which gave Kirkconnell Lea 
a name in story. 

‘ ‘ It was all my fault, papa, ” the girl cried out : 
“it was, indeed !” 

The Earl smiled compassionately. 

“My dear Nina, I have no doubt that your 
first French governess taught you that qui s'ex~ 
cuse, s accuse. I didn’t say any one was in fault. 
I only said, 1 Sit down there till I am ready to 
take you home.’ Will you do so at once?” 

His steady eyes quelled the rising rebellion in 
Nina’s breast. Very slowly and reluctantly, like 
one who yields to the mesmeric will, she did as 
she was bidden : she looked back once over her 
shoulder, and then her lips rather formed than 
uttered the single word ‘ ‘ Good-bye. ” The Earl’s 
glance followed his daughter, till she sank down 
on the chair he had pointed out. When he turn- 
ed again on Kendall, his brow was still smooth, 
but the smile was off his face. 

“Now, perhaps you will explain the meaning 
of all this. ” 


Kendall had expected some such interrogation 
for the last five minutes, and was prepared to re- 
ply to it after a fashion. He began a pretty set 
speech, wherein he was aware that he was scarce- 
ly worthy, etc. The Earl cut him short before 
the second period was fairly turned. 

“Ah, we’ll leave all that out, if you please. I 
prefer to listen to that sort of thing from a stall 
in the third row. I want a plain answer to a 
plain question. All clandestine meetings have 
some object, I presume. What was yours this 
morning ?” 

Kendall was a craven to the marrow of his 
bones, yet something in the other’s manner 
goaded him into a show of spirit. 

“My object?” he said doggedly — “the same 
object that any man might own Avho loves a 
woman in truth and honor, and hopes to win her 
in spite of some differences of station. It may 
sound presumptuous, of course ; but I have yet 
to learn that I have any thing to be ashamed of.” 

The Earl bent his head in quiet assent. 

“I think you have a good deal to learn, Mr. 
Kendall. I’m obliged to you for coming to the 
point, though. Perhaps the less said about truth 
and honor the better ; our ideas are not likely to 
coincide. Mine are old-fashioned, I dare say. 
The set I’ye lived with are not very straitlaced ; 
but they’re plain people, who would call com- 
promising such a mere child as that one yonder 
little better than kidnapping. No : I’m not pre- 
pared to say that there’s any particular presump- 
tion about it. Intellect marches on so fast, that 
very soon any man, within the franchise, will be 
entitled to ask any other elector for his daughter. 
I suppose, however, the said elector will retain, 
for some short time to come, the right of saying 
‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ You are good enough to allow 
that there exist some slight social differences 
between yourself and Lady Gwendoline Marston. 
Never mind that. I’m speaking to you now as 
if your birth and breeding were on a par. You 
know best what your own resources and expecta- 
tions are. I don’t want to hear a word on that 
subject, for the simple reason that neither now 
nor at any future time can it possibly interest 
me or mine ; but, before you think seriously of 
winning any woman, gentle or simple, wouldn’t 
it be better to consider how you are going to sup- 
port her ? Now, listen to me. There’s a certain 
sum settled on my younger children, of course ; 
but Lady Daventry and myself have the ‘ power 
of appointment. ’ Perhaps you don’t know what 
that means. Well, I can tell you. It means 
just this : that I can prevent any one of those 
children from being one shilling the better by 
that same settlement during my life or after my 
death. Now this power, in case of need, I intend 
to exercise to the last letter. If a daughter of 
mine marries without my consent, she is cut 
adrift from her family from that day : I would 
rather thenceforth help with my purse or my in- 
fluence the merest stranger, than her, her hus- 
band, or her children, however sore their strait 
might be. I shouldn’t waste breath in cursing ; 
it would be much simpler to leave her alone to 
bear her own burdens. Under the circumstances, 
so long as I lived — and I have a very fair consti- 
tution — I don’t think the ‘ connection’ could be 
turned to much account. I can’t answer for 
Lady Daventry, of course ; but I have an idea 
that her feelings would not be easily worked 


G2 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


upon. You have heard what I say — speaking 
for myself. I will never alter or abate one syl- 
lable, so help me God! Are you in the same 
mind still?’' 

In the same mind? No, certainly not that; 
but the precise state of Kendall’s sensations at 
that moment could not be easily set down in 
words, lie was quite clever enough to distin- 
guish between vaporing menace and substantial 
warning. He acknowledged within himself that 
the man who had uttered those words would be 
more likely to die than to relent ; and — standing 
there with scarcely a wrinkle on his white fore- 
head, or a silver fleck in his chestnut curls — 
Lord Daventry looked provokingly full of vitali- 
ty. Weighing the certainty of heavy risk against 
the faint chances of remote gains, the speculation 
was hardly such as to tempt a prudent pauper, 
with his way to make in the world. Neverthe- 
less, Horace could not bring himself at once to 
relinquish it. To begin with, Nina had strong 
attractions for him — social and mercenary con- 
siderations apart. He knew that to many others 
besides himself her face seemed very fair. There 
was incessant food for vanity in the thought that 
men who scarcely favored him with a careless 
nod, and who would have blackballed him from 
head to heel in any ballot whatsoever, might 
have labored long to secure one of the smiles 
that for him had ceased to be rare. He liked 
the girl’s wayward daring, perhaps all the better 
because it contrasted so strongly with his own 
cautious, calculating nature. Furthermore, there 
was working within him — though this, perhaps, 
he w'as utterly unconscious of — the black acrid 
poison that, since the world was young, has leav- 
ened the ferment of so many revolts — the spleen 
of social inferiority. 

Without some sort of gloss, that last sentence 
might easily be misconstrued. I do not mean to 
claim for the “blue blood” immunity from mean- 
nesses ; or to assert that the guinea-stamp is the 
best voucher for purity of metal ; or to deny that, 
setting influence of circumstances aside, high and 
healthy impulses are not as likely to be found in 
the gipsy-child, sw‘addled in hay-bands, as in the 
daintiest porphyrogenete. If the prophecies of 
the amiable “ Historicus” are to be fulfilled, we 
will wish the working man good luck with his 
honor, appending thereunto the hope that his 
right hand will not teach him too terrible things. 
I was not alluding just now either to the peasant 
or artisan, much less to those unhappy creatures 
who seem predestined to ramp in the mire at the 
foot of the World’s Ladder, with no particular in- 
terest in any schemes mooted above that do not 
bear more or less directly on the subversion of 
order or alteration of the penal code. Neither 
had I in mind the vast middle class, taken as a 
whole, but only certain specimens thereof — peo- 
ple who, instead of doing their duty in the state 
of life to which it pleased Heaven to call them, 
like the honest men who begat them, are always 
wriggling up a rung higher, utterly careless as to 
how unsteady their footing may be, or how their 
hands may be soiled in climbing — people whose 
aspirations have furnished food for ridicule ever 
since pencil of caricaturist or pen of satirist was 
wielded ; those who brought into vogue, surely 
the most odious word that ever sprang from a 
musical root — “gentility.” Mark this too: 
wherever it is a question of class jealousy, the 


envy of the plebeian born and bred is the very 
milk of human kindness compared to the malice 
of the parvenu. 

For some time past, Kendall had kept steadily 
before him one object — the securing a recognised 
position in what is called Society. In the further- 
ance of this, there is scarcely any contumely from 
which he would actually have recoiled : but par- 
tial success only made him more keenly alive to 
slights and repulses, albeit many of these, per- 
haps, only existed in his own morbid fancy. He 
was always tormented by the misgiving that his 
pretty little affectations must seem to others, as 
well as himself, like sham jewels set side by side 
with heir-looms. The very type of the set that 
Horace hated and envied about equally was be- 
fore him now — languid, self-possessed, thorough- 
ly at ease, and thoroughly determined to abate 
not an inch of his vantage-ground. Overt insult, 
or coarse abuse, would have been infinitely easier 
to endure than the amenities he had just list- 
ened to. Kendall vowed to himself that his ad- 
versary should not carry the matter quite so 
smoothly through ; nevertheless, he answered 
with touching humility, after an instant’s pause : 

“My wishes would never change, even if I 
were forced to give up hope. Do I understand 
that you require that Lady Gwendoline and my- 
self should be strangers henceforth — strangers al- 
ways — and that this can never be altered ? It 
sounds very, very hard — almost too hard. ” 

The Earl drew himself up ever so slightly, and 
the fashion of his countenance was changed. 
Even now there was no anger in his eyes, but 
the softness had gone out of them utterly. 

“Unquestionably you may understand that 
much, ” he said; “but you’ll understand some- 
thing more before we part. I have been arguing 
on grounds of expediency so far, as if there were 
no such things as social distinctions. As the ar- 
gument don’t seem to be convincing, we’ll take 
the other side of the question — the kidnapping 
side. If you suppose for a moment that I’m go- 
ing to turn that poor child into a prisoner, or my 
house into a jail, to keep her safe from you, you 
labor under such a mistake as few men make 
twice in a lifetime. You have ample warning 
now ; it won’t be repeated. If, after this, there 
comes any annoyance from you, directly or indi- 
rectly, by word, deed, or letter — more than that, 
if I hear of your making a good story out of any 
folly that you may have entrapped her into al- 
ready — I'll stop it — not by fair means, but by 
foul. Rather a hard sentence to construe, isn’t 
it ? But the right of translation is reserved. We 
live in the midst of law and order, of course, and 
the Coventry Act has been a dead letter this long 
time past; but, if they were communicative down 
at Scotland Yard, they could tell you one or two 
curious stories about ‘ East-ending. ’ I shall give 
you no further hints : the unknown is always tlie 
most terrible.” 

Many men, finding themselves in Kendall’s po- 
sition, would have turned the tables at once in 
their own favor by laughing the menace to scorn ; 
but, by dint of making experiments in corpore 
vili, Lord Daventry had acquired a tolerably 
sharp insight into the weaker and worse side of 
human nature. On the present occasion it seem- 
ed he had gauged very accurately the character 
with which he had to deal, and his bolt was not 
shot at a venture. It was evident that Kendall 


63 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


was thoroughly frightened. His clumsy attempt 
at bluster would not have imposed on a child. 

“ I — I’m not to be intimidated,” he said in a 
thick, unsteady voice. “Are you aware, my lord, 
such threats are actionable ?” 

“Perfectly aware,” the other replied placidly. 
“You can lay an information if you like; but I 
doubt if you’ll get any magistrate to take it. 
I’ve got a reputation for good temper, and I 
haven’t been in a quarrel since I left school. I 
doubt still more, if you came to harm hereafter — 
if your beauty were spoiled in a street-row, for 
instance — whether you’d bring me in as acces- 
sory before the fact. East-enders are too well 
paid to peach. I can spare you no more time, I 
am sorry to say. You can think over all this at 
your leisure. ” 

A man bold enough to set the Earl’s warning 
utterly at naught could scarcely have failed to be 
impressed by the contrast between his dedonnaire 
manner and the purport of his words. Trucu- 
lence would have been infinitely less effective. 
Such a contrast might have been seen at some of 
the banquets in the wild old times, where non^ 
wore garb more warlike than what is wrought in 
velvet, miniver, or lawn ; but where, if a guest 
stirred over hastily, an ominous rattle would 
have been heard, and gray steel would have 
glimmered under rochet or robe of estate. 

There was an awkward pause. Then Horace 
spoke with some faint show of spirit ; it was like 
the last melancholy ruffle of the drums when the 
garrison of a surrendered fortress is forming to 
march out. 

“ I have no wish to annoy any one, or to thrust 
my company where it is not welcome. I would 
have said as much five minutes ago. Nothing I 
have done, my lord, justifies such language as 
you have seen fit to use. I will pass my solemn 
word not to communicate in any way with Lady 
Gwendoline Marston without your knowledge or 
consent ; and I need hardly say that her name 
shall never suffer through me. I presume this 
will satisfy you ?” 

Without going deep into decimals, it would be 
hard to set down the precise value at which the 
Earl estimated Horace Kendall’s word ; but he 
thought he had a more material security against 
any future breach of the peace than that gentle- 
man’s own recognisances ; and it had always 
been his policy to provide the broadest of bridges 
for a flying foe. “Never pen ’em, if you can help 
it, ” he was wont to say. So he answered with 
edifying gravity, just as if he were accepting the 
most substantial of guarantees. 

“ Perfectly satisfied. And now, as we under- 
stand each other thoroughly, and I happen to be 
rather busy to-day, I think I shall wish you a 
very good-morning.” 

And once more the Earl lifted his hat. The 
other returned the salute mechanically Avithout 
looking up ; then he stood quite still, his hands 
crossed before him, and resting on the handle 
of his walking-stick. A few seconds later Nina 
passed him on her father’s arm ; and her piteous 
glance was unanswered, even if it was noticed, 
by those sullen eyes. 

“What did you say to him, papa?” the girl 
°sked when they had gone about a hundred 
ards. “You will tell me, I know.” 

Her lips were very white, but they scarcely 
rembled at all. She was a thorough Marston ; 


and that family had a knack of taking their pun- 
ishment quietly, in whatsoever shape it might 
descend. 

“Well, there’s very little to tell,” the Earl an- 
swered in his airy way. “I explained to Mr. 
Kendall that there must be an end to all this non- 
sense — utterly an end — and he perfectly agreed 
with me.” 

“ He — perfectly — agreed — with you?” 

The dull heavy syllables dropped out one by 
one. Then her lips were pressed tightly togeth- 
er ; but she could not keep them from quivering 
a little now. 

Raoul Marston was not devoid of natural af- 
fection, though he seldom went out of his way to 
display it. He felt very sorry for his little daugh- 
ter, and very loth to add to her pain. It cost 
him no small effort to answer her cheerily. 

“Of course he agreed with me; and so will 
you, my dear, when your foolish little head gets 
straight again. I hope it won’t be so easily turn- 
ed in future, or we shall have to send you back 
to the school-room, and have that last Gorgon of 
a governess back again. I’m much too old to 
turn detective, and you’re too young to be turned 
into a prisoner at large. Now, you’ll just give 
me your word that there shall be no further com- 
munication between yourself and Mr. Kendall 
that I don’t sanction — it’s no more than he has 
done already — then all this shall rest a secret be- 
tween you and me. I sha’n’t even tell my lady 
about it.” 

A real heroine would have avowed herself will- 
ing to be incarcerated there and then, and to eat 
the bread and water of affliction indefinitely, rath- 
er than resign her heart’s desires ; but we do not 
often read of such in the romances which profess 
to mirror modern society, and probably neither 
you nor I ever encountered them in the flesh. 
Nina Marston was able and willing to bear up 
her full share of the burden of the battle ; but, 
now that her natural ally had signed terms of 
surrender on his own account, she was not mind- 
ed to fight to the death — alone. It may be, too, 
that one of the misgivings that she had never been 
quite able to smother as to the real character of 
the man for whom she had risked so much, and 
with such poor return, came back upon her just 
then. Moreover, you will remember she had come 
to the trysting-place that morning with the set- 
tled purpose of saying “Good-bye.” She looked 
up bravely in her father’s face. 

“Let me write to him — just one little note — 
that he may not think me cold and cruel ; and 
then I will give you that promise, papa, and keep 
it too.” 

Gwendoline Marston’s parole was a very differ- 
ent thing from Horace Kendall’s. A strong-mind- 
ed parent would assuredly have rejected that con- 
dition : perhaps it rather strengthened Lord Da- 
ventry’s confidence. 

“I oughtn’t to listen to such a thing,” he said 
half-grumblingly ; “ I feel like an accomplice as 
it is. Well, you may write just that once, and I 
trust you — do you hear me, Nina? — I trust you 
not to write a word that either you or I need be 
ashamed of hereafter ; and then all this shall be 
as if it had never been. But there won’t be an 
end of it, as far as I’m concerned, if I see you 
look pale and moping.” 

“ You needn’t fear,” she said. 

Glancing round first, to see that nobody was 


<54 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


near — he was exceeding circumspect in such mat- 
ters — the Earl stooped and kissed his daughter’s 
brow. If the compact had been duly engrossed, 
attested, and signed, it could not have been more 
effectually sealed. 

That same evening Nina and Avenel met — in 
a crowd, of course — but there was space and leis- 
ure enough to serve their purpose. 

“ Well ?” Regy asked, lifting those expressive 
brows of his, which did almost as much service 
as Burleigh’s nod. There was bitterness enough 
still clinging about the girl’s heart to make her 
feel triumph in being able to defy, at all events, 
her self-appointed guardian. 

“Well ?” she retorted. “That means that you 
want a full and correct account of all my sayings 
and doings to-day, on pain of being brought be- 
fore the judgment-seat if I refuse. I do refuse, 
then; and you can make the best or worst of it.” 

Avenel was really chagrined, and showed it. 

‘ ‘ So you haven’t come to your senses yet ? And 
I so hoped you would. I must speak to them at 
home, then : God knows how I hate it. ” 

He looked so pained that Nina’s enmity was 
disarmed. He had meant kindly by her through- 
out, after all : she knew that. 

“ No, I’ve nothing to tell you, Regy,” she said ; 
‘ ‘ but you needn’t go to papa, nevertheless. He 
knows everything, or nearly everything ; for he 
came up — quite by chance, I’m certain — when I 
was talking to him this morning. It’s all over — 
quite over. Papa’s satisfied about that, so I sup- 
pose you’ll be. Don’t speak of it any more, please ; 
and take me up stairs directly. I wouldn’t miss 
this waltz on any account. I’m just in the hu- 
mor for dancing to-night. Can’t you fancy it ?” 

And so the first romance of Gwendoline Mar- 
ston’s life died, and was buried — decently, if with 
no great pomp of funeral honors. Well — when 
on such sepulchres there is not written Resurgam. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“A thoroughly satisfactory place, ” saidVere 
Alsager. 

A better epithet could not have been applied 
to Kenlis Castle and its belongings. There was 
nothing either of savage grandeur or soft luxuri- 
ance in the landscape ; but no one would have 
thought of calling it tame, and it embraced most 
of the best features of ordinary Scotch scenery. 
The topmost peak of the long hill-ranges, stretch- 
ing away till purple faded into misty blue, was far 
from kissing heaven ; yet the travelling of them 
was no mean test of wind and muscle. The pines 
in the hanging woods were mere dwarfs, compared 
with the “shadowy armies” that line Norwegian 
or Alpine heights ; but they made up a rich back- 
ground, and a fence withal, through which the 
north-east winds, though they strove hard and 
often, could not force a passage. The loch, wid- 
ening gradually as it trended seawards, was 
scarcely a rifle-shot across, over against the cas- 
tle ; yet its shores were broken by more bays and 
promontories in miniature than are often found 
in more imposing lakes ; and in calm weather you 
felt as if you could almost cut out the shadows of 
birch and oak resting on the clear, deep water. 

As for the castle itself, no one with proper ideas 
of comfort would have wished to add a cubit to 
its size, or a year to its age. Some additions to 


the original fabric had been made from time to 
time — always in the same solemn granite, that 
looks not much more hoary after the lapse of a 
century than when fresh from the quarrying. 
However, for two generations, at least, the sound 
of mason’s hammer had not been heard there; 
and the general aspect of the building was little 
changed since Sir Dugald Kenlis, with his own 
hands, fixed the last battlement of the central 
tower. 

After the fall of the leaf, when the trees were 
bare and the hill-sides bleak, and the loch fretted 
with foam, the castle would doubtless look some- 
what sombre and eerie. At such a season, with- 
out some strong antidote to melancholy or mor- 
bid fancies, even a strong-minded sceptic might 
have caught himself speculating, oftener than was 
agreeable, whether it were absolutely certain that 
the legend of the Brown Lady was such an idle 
tale. For Kenlis, be it known, possessed a ghost, 
the existence and occasional appearance of which 
could be attested by several living witnesses — 
chiefly by a certain ancient ex-housekeeper, who, 
in a cottage just without the demesne wall, lived 
in much ease and dignity on her pension and pec- 
ulations. A pitiless Presbyterian was this an- 
cient dame, and — on the principle of truth being 
generally disagreeable — implicitly to be believed. 

But, with autumn weather overhead, and wealth 
of greenery all round, there was no excuse for such 
vain imaginings ; and there was justice in Blanche 
Ramsay’s self-reproaches when she called herself 
ungrateful and fanciful, and a dozen harder names, 
for feeling so constantly out of spirits there. Her 
first impressions of the place had been most fa- 
vorable ; and these, to a certain extent, had not 
worn oft*. She liked water, and wood, and heaths 
er, to the full as well as when she looked on them 
first, and while in the air she was happy enough 
in her own quiet way ; but directly she came in- 
doors a heavy weight seemed to oppress her that 
she could not shake off, try as she would. She 
began to feel dull and chilly, and disinclined to 
talk or even to move unnecessarily. 

Very clever upholsterers, with carte blanche 
given them, had refurnished the castle, and few 
appliances of modern luxury were wanting there ; 
nevertheless, the interior was certainly somewhat 
gloomy. After sunset, even at this season, Night 
and Echo would have their way in the long cor- 
ridors, in despite of frequent sconces and thick 
piled carpeting; and, when not a leaf was stirring 
outside, a breeze seemed always soughing among 
the black timberwork of the vaulted hall. Yet 
this could not account for it ; for her own special 
rooms, looking to the south, were airy and light- 
some as she could desire, and she felt it there 
just the same. To be sure, all her arrangements 
hitherto had been on rather a tiny scale ; and, 
when she first began to play the chatelaine , it 
was only natural that she should feel somewhat 
over-awed. Domestic cares or anxieties she had 
none ; for Ramsay had no small economies, and 
would just as soon have thought of brushing his 
own clothes, as of allowing his wife to trouble 
herself with any matters falling within the house- 
steward’s or housekeeper’s province. Perhaps it 
might have been better if Blanche had been forced 
to exert herself in some way that would have 
kept her thoughts busy whilst she was alone: 
she was a good deal alone at first, for business, 
chiefly connected with outlying portions of the 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


65 


estate, had accumulated during Mark’s long ab- 
sence; and during the week following their ar- 
rival at Kenlis, he was seldom indoors between 
breakfast and dinner. 


On one of these afternoons, Blanche strolled 
down to the loch-side, and nestled herself, with 
her novel, into a certain cosy nook that she had 
discovered in one of her earliest rambles. There 



NESTLED IN A COSY NOOK. 


she sat, reading and day-dreaming in about equal otherwise till she was startled by, a mstling iu 
proportions— for the book rather bored her than . the birch -boughs overhead that could not have 


66 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


been caused by the breeze, for the water at her 
feet was smooth as steel. Before she could look 
up, Mark had swung himself down from a jutting 
crag above, and dropped lightly on the sand be- 
side her. 

“So this is your notion of doing the honors of 
Kenlis, Bianchetta ? Don’t you know that you 
ought to be sitting up there in state to receive 
visitors ? These are the very first that have call- 
ed since we came into our kingdom. I’ve no 
doubt the worthy creatures came famishing with 
curiosity to see what Mrs. Ramsay was like ; and 
lo, they are sent empty away !” 

He threw a couple of cards into her lap, where- 
on was inscribed 


Captain Irving. 
Miss Irving. 

Drumour. 


“I’m a true penitent,” Blanche said. “If 
you’ll believe me, the possibility of a morning 
visit never once crossed my mind. Conceive 
there being a neighborhood somewhere beyond 
our hills ! I wonder what these people are like, 
Mark ; the name sounds rather nice, doesn’t it ?” 

“Don’t found pleasant conclusions on that,” 
Ramsay said with a laugh, as he settled himself 
in the rocky ledge on which his wife was reclin- 
ing. “ I know nothing about the Irvings — I’ve 
a sort of notion they were away when I was here 
last autumn ; at all events, they didn’t deign to 
notice graceless grouse-shooters — but I dare say 
my fancy portrait won’t be half a bad likeness. 
The father — a regular half-pay ‘ heavy,” with an 
ancient War-Office grievance, always ready to be 
brought in when he has said his say about Kirk 
and Session — shoots with one muzzle-loader over 
slow setters ; and won’t allow that any one but 
himself can tie a fly. The daughter — or sister, 
as the case may be — of the ‘ bitter barmaid’ type, 
gaunt and rather grim, wears good serviceable 
boots and a tartan petticoat, and writes short 
tales with long morals for Family Journals. Be- 
fore you have been ten minutes in her company, 
she will find out something about your ‘ state of 
grace,’ Blanche, depend upon it.” 

Mrs. Ramsay shuddered slightly. 

‘ ‘ And you call that portrait-painting ? I won- 
der what your caricatures would be like. Now, 
I’ve no doubt that they are just what you said 
at first — very worthy creatures. It was a great 
stretch of charity to drive out at all on such a 
sultry afternoon. We shall appreciate it better 
when we return their visit, I dare say.” 

“I rather admire that ‘we.’ Is it absolutely 
necessary that I should take part in the ceremo- 
ny? I think I must stay at home and look after 
Alsager, who comes to-night, you know. It 
wouldn’t be civil to leave him to his own devices 
quite so soon.” 

“How truly considerate!” Blanche said de- 
murely. “It’s quite refreshing in these selfish 
days to find any one so alive to hospitable duties. 
Now I think that both you and Mr. Alsager, if 
you made a great effort, might possibly survive 
the pilgrimage to Drumour. If you can’t, I 
think I shall defer mine till the Brancepeths 
come next week. I’d give any thing to hear 
Queenie questioned as to her state of grace.” 


“ Well, we’ll see about it,” Mark replied, pick- 
ing himself up leisurely. “I haven’t the slight- 
est doubt, when it comes to the point, you’ll man- 
age it your own way. Suppose we stroll slowly 
home ; it’s too hot to hurry, and it must be close 
on dressing-time. These long rides give one a 
savage appetite, and Isidor’s entries are too clever 
to be kept waiting.” 

It was on the following morning that Alsager 
made the remark recorded above, whilst he and 
his host were smoking the after-breakfast cigar 
on the broad terrace-walk that ran all along the 
western and southern sides of the castle. 

“Yes, it’s a liveable place enough,” Ramsay 
acquiesced; “but I’m happy to say there’s plen- 
ty of room for improvement still. I don’t seem 
to care for things that are absolutely perfect.” 

“No, I shouldn’t think you did,” the other- 
retorted. “You’re not exactly a ‘character,’ 
Mark ; but I never saw any one quite like you, 
all the same. Now, if I’d been making both ends 
of a pittance meet, so long — that’s just what a 
thousand a-year is to a man of your tastes and 
habits — and found myself one fine morning a 
Carabas, I couldn’t for the life of me take it so 
coolly as you do. I think I should always be 
calling my neighbors to rejoice with me, or mak- 
ing myself ridiculous in one way or other, for at 
least another twelvemonth to come.” 

“The neighbors come without being called — 
at least a couple of them have,” Mark said ; “I’ll 
tell you about that presently, though. But you 
are wrong there ; I don’t take what’s happened 
all as a matter of course : indeed, I wonder at it 
as much as I can wonder at any thing. ” 

“Ah, it never rains but it pours!” the other 
went on. “I’m not at all sure that your last 
stroke of luck wasn’t as good as the first. You 
don’t think I’d flatter you at this time of day ; 
but I don’t know when I've seen any thing so 
1 nice as Mrs. Ramsay. You ought to be too hap- 
py, Mark, that’s the truth of it. If I were you, 
I’d contrive to drop something very valuable into 
the loch occasionally, on $iat Greek tyrant’s prin- 
ciple of throwing a sop to Fortune.” 

‘ ‘ Polycrates, you mean. It wasn’t such a very 
bright idea either. They crucified him soon aft- 
erward — served him quite right, too, for fancying 
that he could satisfy the envy of gods with a jew- 
eller’s toy. What would you have me throw 
away, Yere? Not my wife, I presume? She’s 
about the only portable treasure I should care 
very much about losing — just now.” 

Alsager was not more malicious or envious 
than his fellows ; nevertheless, as he repeated 
the last words to himself, he laughed a little, in- 
wardly. While the world la^ts, he whose garden 
is barren of herb, fruit, or flower, will not seldom 
console himself with the thought that a canker- 
worm may be coiled round the root of his neigh- 
bor’s gourd. 

“ You were mentioning some neighbors just- 
now,” Yere asked, after smoking silently a min- 
ute or two ; ‘ ‘ what'of them ?” 

“Well, a Captain and Miss Irving left their 
cards yesterday, and it’s a question of returning 
their call. Morning-visits in desert-life are too 
absurd ; but Blanche is so plaintive about going 
alone, that I hardly like to send her. She’g 
cruelly out of her element with stiff, uncouth 
people, such as these are certain to turn out. 
Would you mind very much going over to-mor- 


67 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


row afternoon? We can make up a scratch 
team for the break ; and, as they want putting 
together, they’d just suit you. It’s a fair, hard 
road, I believe, and goes through some good 
scenery. ” 

“I don’t want bribing,” the other said; “I 
rather like the idea than not. llow do you 
know that these are such rough diamonds? The 
country is fairly civilized hereabouts, and the 
name don’t sound uncouthly. There was an 
Irving made a great stir in Florence just before 
our time. Though domestic duties are very elas- 
tic out there, I don’t think he could have been a 
family man. To be sure ‘ Miss’ stands for sister 
as well as daughter; but it’s long odds against 
its being the same. We’ll see Mrs. Ramsay 
through it to-morrow, anyhow. We shall have 
a rare sail this evening if the breeze holds — a 
leading wind both ways — and we’re sure to pick 
up something, ‘trailing.’” 

The drive next day quite answered Ramsay’s 
warranty. The ground was not such as most 
people would have selected for the trial of a 
scratch team ; but Alsager was a thorough work- 
man, of the “fast” school. He hustled his horses 
too much, some critics said ; but he never let 
them get out of his hand. Even the stubborn 
near leader was fain to realize at last that he had 
not come out for his own amusement that day, 
and settled down doggedly to his collar up the 
last steep slope, in the valley beyond which lay 
Drumour. 

An exclamation of pleased surprise broke from 
Mrs. Ramsay as they rose the crest of the hill. 

“ l)o pull up for an instant, if it’s possible, Mr. 
Alsager; I didn’t reckon on such a view as this.” 

“Nothing easier,” V ere said, as he brought 
his team up with a long, steady pull; “they’ll 
be all the better for a breathing. That’s worth 
looking at, certainly. ” 

It was one of the bits of scenery not uncom- 
mon in Scotland — which, lying out of the beaten 
track, are better known to stalkers than to tour- 
ists — where Nature has shown what she can do 
when she sets her hand in earnest to landscape- 
gardening. It would not have been easy to im- 
prove on the grouping of cliff, wood, and water at 
Drumour, though every thing was on a miniature 
scale — from the loch, that looked as if no gust 
had ever ruffled it rudely, to the velvet lawn, 
on which a few gorgeous flower-beds lay like 
jewels. The house itself was in^erfect keeping 
with the rest — a low, irregular building, abound- 
ing in nooks and gables, and mantled in creepers 
to the base of its quaint, twisted chimneys. 

“Do half-pay officers usually live in such 
quarters, Mark ?” Mrs. Ramsay asked rather tri- 
umphantly. And her husband was fain to con- 
fess that his fancy portrait might not turn out 
such a faithful one. 

A few minutes later they had drawn up before 
the porch, and had been informed by a very cor- 
rect-looking man-servant that Miss Irving was 
at home, and her father within call. Blanche’s 
own boudoir at Kenlis was not more dainty to 
look upon than the drawing-room into which the 
visitors were shown ; yet the furniture was not 
specially costly ; and, setting aside some rare 
china, the hicknacks scattered about were more 
valuable for their workmanship than for their 
material. And the mistress thereof — was she 
of the ‘ ‘ bitter barmaid” type ? Y ou shall judge. 


A tall, very tall figure, and superbly devel- 
oped ; yet so supple and delicately moulded that 
even a rival would not have ventured to speak 
of it as “fine;” glossy nut-brown hair, rippling 
low over a broad Egyptian forehead ; gray opal- 
line eyes, rather deeply set under strong arched 
brows, shaded by lashes much darker than the 
hair ; a mouth too large to please an artist, but 
to ordinary mortals, with its firm scarlet lips, and 
teeth faultless in shape and color, tempting past 
the telling ; features of the subdued aquiline ; a 
complexion pale on the surface, with subtle, faint 
rose -tints beneath, when you looked more nar- 
rowly. Such was the siynalement of Alice Irving, 
oet. 22. 

In the fashion of her dress there was nothing 
apparently beyond the scope of ordinary waiting- 
maid’s skill ; "but I doubt if the high priest of the 
fashionable temple in the Street of Peace, after 
an hour’s devout meditation, could have ordained 
any thing more suggestive than the modest fou- 
lard, which might have been chosen to match 
her eyes. Her beauty was of that peculiar stamp 
which is certain to provoke enmity and envy, 
howsoever meekly it be used, simply because 
other types, differing ever so much betwixt them- 
selves, suffer almost equally in comparison. Un- 
luckily, it happens that women endowed with this 
perilous pre-eminence seldom do use it wisely or 
well. Nothing could be quieter than her voice 
and manner ; but, before her few simple words 
of welcome were spoken, Alsager, whose ears sel- 
dom deceived him, thought within himself that 
it would be worth walking more miles than they 
had driven to hear that woman sing. 

Mrs. Ramsay, whose presence of mind was 
equal to most social emergencies, was fairly 
startled by the apparition. She thought, per- 
haps, like Christabel in the wood, 

’Twas fearful there to see 
A lady richly clad as she — 

Beautiful exceedingly. 

Mark himself took the whole thing in his 
wonted matter-of-course way, and did not even 
answer a meaning side-glance from Alsager. 

“Yes, Drumour is charming, even in winter,” 
Miss Irving said, in answer to an admiring re- 
mark of Blanche’s; “at least, I find it so; but 
at this season every one is fascinated with it. I 
have seen little of it lately : we’ve been abroad 
the last four years, and the place was let.” 

“Travelling abroad?” Mark struck in. “I 
have been such a wanderer myself, that it is 
strange we have never met. We never did 
meet, I’m quite sure.” 

A faint smile showed that the subtle flattery 
of the last words was not lost upon Alice Irving. 

“Not so strange,” she said, “when you hear 
that our headquarters were at Darmstadt, and 
that I, at least, was almost always a fixture 
there. It’s not an out-of-the-way place, certain- 
ly, and birds of passage often perch there for a 
single night ; but I can hardly conceive any one 
lingering longer, without strong and sufficient 
reasons, such as ours were. Every thing and 
every body is so deadly-lively, from the Grand 
Duke downward ; and when one gets thoroughly 
torpid, even Shakespeare in German won’t wake 
one up.” 

“ Well, I trust you are quite established here 
now,” Mrs. Ramsay said kindly; “and that’s not 
a very disinterested hope. Kenlis can’t have 


C8 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


many such neighbors, and within such easy dis- 
tance, too ; the drive is a mere nothing.” 

“ I’m sure I hope so,” Alice answered ; “but 
we’re the most uncertain people. I think papa 
rather piques himself on making no plans be- 
yond the week. Ah, here he comes ; he will be 
so glad not to have missed you !” 

There was little, if any, family likeness betwixt 
father and daughter. Captain Irving’s figure was 
Wonderfully proportioned, and his features nearly 
faultless ; but it was diminutive perfection, and 
the general effeminacy of his appearance was 
heightened by an evident coxcombry of attire, 
lie Avas the sort of man that you could fancy, in 
case of shipAvreck, appearing Avithout a trace of 
disorder half an hour after he had been cast on 
a desert shore. He doffed a broad-leafed hat of 
Panama straAv as he entered through one of the 
open French AvindoAvs ; and, as he crossed the 
light, it Avas plain to see that either Time had 
dealt very gently Avith his glossy curls, or that 
Art had balked the old Avenger. 

If there Avas little outward resemblance be- 
tAvixt father and daughter, their voices, at least, 
Avere remarkably alike. Both had the same rich, 
flexible intonations ; and you could fancy Cap- 
tain Irving’s Avhite taper fingers straying over the 
keys of an instrument, and Avorking A\ r onderful 
things thereon. His manner Avas very quiet and 
gentle, though there Avas no lack of warmth in 
his Avelcome; and he settled himself doAvn by 
Mrs. Ramsay with the matter-of-course ease of 
a man Avho, rightly or Avrongly, considers he has 
a prescriptive right to the attention of pretty 
Avomen. 

Altogether, it Avas a pleasant quintette ; and 
the conversation, such as it AA r as, did not flag a 
whit, till it was full time to order the break 
round. 

“I suppose it’s no use asking you to shoot 
Avith us just yet?” Mark said to his host as he 
rose to depart. “A man’s oavii birds have the 
first claim on him for a good Aveek after the 
TAvelfth. But we shall be too happy, Avhenever 
you can spare a day — or, better still, tAvo days — 
sleeping at Kenlis, of course ; and perhaps Miss 
Irving might be tempted to accompany you. ” 

“A thousand thanks,” the other answered. 
“I should like it of all things; but — it’s a very 
humiliating confession — I haven’t fired a shot- 
gun for years. A little feeble fly-fishing is my 
best attempt at fulfilling the Whole Duty of a 
Hielandman ; and all my ground, except one beat 
that supplies the house, is let. I’ll drive Alice 
over one morning, though, in time to escort Mrs. 
Ramsay, if she chooses, to meet you at lunch. 
Those are the only circumstances under which I 
ever take the hill. We’ll stay that night Avith 
pleasure. Hoav time passes! I Avas an ensign 
and lieutenant Avhen I slept at Kenlis last.” 

And so it Avas settled. 

A A r ote of confidence in Drumour and its 
tenants Avas passed unanimously by the commit- 
tee of three sitting in the break ; but the home- 
Avard Avas more silent than the outward drive had 
been ; and before the hanging Avoods of Kenlis 
Avere in sight, one of those fits of depression that 
had A-exed and puzzled her so much of late began 
to creep over Blanche Ramsay. They Avould not 
have seemed so unaccountable if she had thor- 
oughly believed in presentiments. But her life 
hitherto had been so free from storms that she 


had not learned to read the meaning of the inno- 
cent-looking white flecks in a cloudless sky, and 
had never been forced to Realize that a small inner 
voice oftentimes speaks more soothlv than all the 
prophets that, since the time of the Tishbite, have 
threatened “Woe !” 

e 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The men were scarcely alone together till they 
settled doAA'n to their evening smoke. Then said 
Alsager : 

“It’s the Florentine .celebrity, after all, you 
may depend upon it. ‘ Never shoots Avith a shot- 
gun’ — that’s likely enough ; but I dare say he 
could give either you or me a lesson with hair- 
triggers. His pistol-practice used to be some- 
thing miraculous, if I remember right ; and it 
pulled him through one or tAvo awkward dilem- 
mas. It’s an agreeable surprise altogether, isn’t 
it ?” 

“Very agreeable, particularly if the rest of 
the neighborhood comes up to the first sample. 
That isn’t likely, though. I’ve seen the father 
before — it’s a sort of face that dAvells on one’s 
memory ; it Avas at Baden, three years ago ; he 
Avas playing fearfully high, with the luck dead 
against him. Navaroff used to point him out, as 
the only Englishman Avho could lose in real Rus- 
sian fashion. I quite understand their living at 
Darmstadt noAv : it’s Avithin hail of every hell in 
Germany. ” 

“ Hoav about the daughter's face ? Don’t you 
think that AA'ould be likely to stay by one too? 
There has been, or will be, the frameAvork of a 
sensation-piece in that young Avoman’s history, 
unless I’m much mistaken.” 

“ Too thoroughbred for the stage, I should 
say,” the other ansAvered ; “and Darmstadt isn’t 
qxactly a dramatic place. It’s odd that she 
hasn’t married, though.” 

“ Odder still that she should not have got into 
some scrape of one sort or another. There’s a 
quiet deA ilry in those eyes that ought to take her 
far.” 

Ramsay shrugged his shoulders someAvliat im- 
patiently. 

“ I’m not going to argue the point. You’re a 
scientific oculist, Vere ; but even science is Avrong 
sometimes. I can see nothing in Miss Irving 
but a highly ornamental young person, likely to 
make a pleasant companion for Blanche when- 
ever Ave’re alone here.” 

“ That of course,” Alsager said Avith his Ioav 
laugh — “a perfect godsend for Mrs. Ramsay in 
every Avay.” 

And all the while he thought Avithin himself, 
half compassionately, that it would have been 
better for his hostess, a thousandfold, to have 
found at Drumour a hard-featured, harsh-voiced 
virago than such an one as Alice Irving. 

Two days later, the Kenlis party Avas com- 
pleted for the present by the advent of three fresh 
guests — the Brancepeths and Colonel Vane ; and 
the folloAving morning, being the Feast of JSt.Te- 
trao, four guns Avere at Avork betimes, pairing olf 
on separate beats. Mr. Brancepeth Avas a stead}", 
methodical performer, but could not stand being 
hurried or flurried ; and, setting jealousy aside, 
had a Avholesome horror of long-striding com- 


69 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


pardons, like Alsager and Vane. With his host 
lie felt a comfortable certainty of being allowed 
to go his own pace and pick his own shots ; for 
Ramsay, like many others who have gone in 
heavily for the big game, was by no means keen 
in the pursuit of feathered fowl, though he shot 
in remarkably good form. When they ceased 
firing, the leisurely couple were found to have 
contributed rather more than their quota to a 
fair mixed bag of over two hundred head. 

There was no luncheon- party that first day; 
for La Reine Gaillarde was just tired enough by 
her long journey to incline rather to a quiet lion- 
izing of Blanche’s new home than to the climb- 
ing of a hill-side on pony-back, even with the 
chance of seeing a certaiif stalwart figure stand- 
ing in relief against the sky-line. She and Vane 
were ancient acquaintances, and might have been 
familiar friends — to put it mildly — if in those 
days the colonel of the Princess’s Own had had 
eyes or ears for the service of any but Mrs. El- 
lerslie. It was not in Laura Brancepeth to bear 
malice, much less to pine over any discomfiture ; 
especially if, as in this case, she had never seri- 
ously addressed herself to the conquest. Cer- 
tainly, she had no need to go out into the high- 
ways and byways to recruit the ranks of her ad- 
herents. Nevertheless her black eyes flashed 
with pleasure when she heard, on her arrival, 
who was expected hourly. Vereker was about 
the last person she had reckoned on meeting at 
Kenlis, at least so soon. Of one thing she felt 
sure — that Mark had invited him there, and was 
thoroughly safe in doing so; and further, that 
if Vane should show signs of better taste than 
heretofore, Blanche would not be likely to inter- 
fere with their innocent amusements. 

There was a good deal worth looking at with- 
in doors at Kenlis Castle ; but before luncheon 
Laura Brancepeth had rambled through the 
whole of it alone, and had penetrated into mol'e 
passages and recesses than Blanche herself had 
ever discovered. After luncheon, the two wo- 
men loitered together through the gardens and 
wood-paths beyond, till they ensconced them- 
selves at last in that tempting nook by the loch- 
side whereof mention has before been made. 

“I declare it’s the most perfect place I ever 
saw',” La Reine said in her hearty, genuine w r ay. 
“This is only the second time I’ve been over the 
Border, it is true ; but I don’t think it could be 
matched in Scotland. Blanche, don’t you love 
it already ?” 

“ Yes ; it’s quite charming,” Blanche answer- 
ed, after a second’s hesitation ; “and I like it, 
of course — who could help liking it ? But some- 
how I don’t think it quite suits me, Queenie. 
You can’t imagine how languid and depressed 
I’ve felt at times — particularly when I'm alone. 
I’ve been a good deal alone since we came down. 
There were an infinity of things for Mark to look 
into all over the estate ; and there’s a terrible 
creature — a factor they call him — who w r on’t be 
denied. Perhaps the air is rather too relaxing.” 

“Absurd,” the other retorted. “The air’s 
simply faultless. It has given me a fabulous ap- 
petite already.” 

Even while she spoke a light breeze ruffled the 
bright water at their feet ; and the veriest hypo- 
chondriac must have acknow ledged gratefully the 
briny freshness it brought from the open sea. *• 

“Mark says just the same thing,” Mrs. Ram- 


say answered with a slight sigh ; “and you are 
both right, I’m certain. I haven’t an excuse for 
moping, either, now you’re come : indeed, I feel 
ever so much better since yesterday. We’ll take 
their lunch out to the hill to-morrow. There 
are plenty of available ponies, and you’ll enjoy 
the scramble. I shouldn’t wonder if the Irvings 
drove over in time to go with us. They’re our 
nearest neighbors — the only ones, indeed, that 
have given signs of their existence — quite a trou- 
vaille in such a wild country. The father looks 
like a statuette of w r hite Dresden, and the daugh- 
ter — Well, I won’t describe her, Qaeenie ; but 
I think you will be surprised. ” 

“ O, I do hope they’ll come,” Lady Laura said 
eagerly. “ Fancy lighting on a pair of Phoenixes 
so far north ! It’s a wonder that none of you 
mentioned the female bird, at all events, soon- 
er.” 

“I had so many things to talk about, I sup- 
pose,” Mrs. Ramsay said, blushing a little. “ It’s 
dangerous to rest too much on first impressions ; 
but I w ish I was as sure of fine weather to-mor- 
row as I am of your being just as favorably im- 
pressed with the Drumour people as we were.” 

Then they fell to talking of other matters, in- 
teresting to themselves, but of no moment to the 
world in general. 

The next day was one of those that Scotland 
occasionally produces, to confute the sulky South- 
rons who assert that “ there’s no climate there, 
only d — d bad weather.” The air was so clear, 
that with a good glass you might almost have 
counted the heather-sprays where they cut the 
sky-line. There was just breeze enough from 
the north-west to prevent sultriness and to help 
the setters, without any of the gusts or flaws that 
make the packs lie uneasily, and carry them, when 
once on the wing, far out of bounds. There was 
firing enough to satisfy a glutton on both beats 
that morning; and the luck or skill on either 
side was so nearly level, that no man’s appetite 
w r as spoiled either by self-upbraiding or envy of 
his fellow. Alsager halted for a second on the 
crest overlooking the hollow where lunch was al- 
ready preparing — the other party were half-way 
dow T n the opposite brae. 

“ Drumour is to the front, you see” (there had 
been speculation on this point the previous even- 
ing). “ I wish we had a photographer here — 
with a painter’s eye, of course, to throw in color 
afterwards.” 

In truth, the group beneath them was worth 
reproducing. The rich heather — crimson rather 
than purple just here — toned down, instead of 
contrasting with, the bright hues of the kirtles, 
peeping out below upper skirts kilted a la Lind- 
say. The soberer tints were supplied by the 
plaids on which the women reclined, and the 
neutral gray of Captain Irving’s shooting suit. 
He leant against a rock a little in the back- 
ground, in precisely the attitude that a sculptor 
would have chosen as best adapted to display the 
points of his slight, graceful figure. 

The luncheon, of course, was a success, for — 
putting the Irvings aside, who evidently came de- 
termined to be pleased— everybody had more or 
less sufficient reason for being in special good- 
humor. To begin with — seventy brace of clean- 
killed birds, with scarcely a cheeper amongst 
them, is a fair forenoon’s work for men shooting 
for their own amusement, with no idea of news- 


70 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


paper renown or the puffing of their moor. Mr. 
Brancepeth, having differed in opinion from the 
head-keeper as to the best way of beating the 
ground, had not only carried his point, but after- 
wards proved himself to be thoroughly in the 
right, to the conviction, if not satisfaction, even 
of the stubborn official. Lady Laura, after some # 
sharp badinage at breakfast, had backed Alsager 
against Vane for a fair stake in gloves ; and was 
now rejoicing over having landed her bet by the 
very short head of a single bird. Pier champion 
to a certain extent went shares in the triumph. 
As forVereker, he "was thinking how much pleas- 1 
anter it was to lose in this fashion than to win — 
even with the probability of being paid — at Vin- 
cennes or„La Marche, and how differently sound- 
ed Laura Brancepeth’s healthy merriment from 
a certain hard, cruel laugh that he hoped to hear 
never again. 

The last two months had wrought a wonderful 
change in him, outwardly no less than inwardly. 
At his worst he had never altogether lost his 
taste for the field-sports among which he had 
been born and bred, and he came back to them 
now with a keener zest than ever. His face 
would never look otherwise now than battered 
and worn ; but the haggard fierceness which had 
deformed it was there no longer ; and it was now 
quite possible to believe that those who had 
known him long ago had not overrated his per- 
sonal advantages. In many respects he had 
waxed wiser of late, notably in this one. He 
could eat of Mark Ramsay’s bread and salt with 
a clear conscience ; for he coveted his wife no 
more. On that night at the Bouffes there was 
worked a cure — sharp, complete, and lasting. 
The ex-dragoon’s code of morality was rather 
vague, but he had his own notions concerning 
equity notwithstanding. He felt, somehow, that 
the Ramsays had held out their hands to help 
him shorewards, when others would have passed 
by and left him wallowing in the slough ; and, 
since then, the idea of troubling their domestic 
peace had never once crossed his mind. He 
stood, quite firm, on the friendly footing now. 
When passion, such as bis, is once slain outright, 
it passes the skill of sorcery itself to put life again 
into the evil dead. 

Blanche herself was perhaps in better spirits 
that morning than she had been since she lunch- 
ed under the sandstone rocks of Fontainebleau. 
The keen, pure mountain air had produced a 
tonic effect already. Also she felt somewhat 
elated at having accomplished a formidable feat 
successfully ; for she was a' timid horsewoman, 
and, though she kept her tremors to herself, had 
seen great fear in the beginning of t^e ascent. 
But misgiving lapsed gradually into implicit con- 
fidence in the sure-footed beast that bore her ; 
she began to think that it was not so absolutely 
necessary she should always stay moping at home 
when her husband rode over the hill ; and this 
in itself was enough to make her happy. 

The special cause of Mark’s contentment w r ould 
not be so easy to define ; but that he was satis- 
fied with the general aspect of things was very 
clear. From his welcome of the Irvings, you 
would scarcely have guessed that their acquaint- 
ance was but four days old. 

Altogether a cheerier repast is not often par- 
taken of ; and an hour was nearly up before Mr. 
Brancepeth — who in his amusements never lost 


sight of a stern sense of duty — thought of look- 
ing at his watch meaningly. 

“Yes, you’re quite right to call ‘Time,’” 
Ramsay said, answering the other’s glance of ap- 
peal ; ‘ ‘ but it so happens that we needn’t hur- 
ry. Cameron wants us to try a drive, you know. 
Some of the men are left back with the flags ; 
but it’ll take him nearly half an hour to get his 
beaters in line. He has shown me where to post 
the guns ; it won’t take us ten minutes to get 
there.” 

“ How lucky !” Lady Laura cried ; “ it’s the 
very thing I wanted to see. I’d rather look at 
a partridge-drive than a ‘ hot corner’ any day ; 
and this must be twice as exciting. We sha’n’t 
be in your way, Mr. Ramsay, if we sit where we 
are told as still as mice. . Henry will go bail for 
my good behavior, I know.” 

Mr. Brancepeth smiled sedately. 

“You couldn’t be very mouse-like under any 
circumstances, I’m afraid, Laura ; but I’ve nev- 
er yet seen you spoil sport.” 

“You won’t be the least in the way,” Mark 
answered ; “indeed, to speak the truth, the drive 
was organized as much for your amusement as 
for ours. It isn’t a long pull, either, up to the 
stand, though it’s rather steep in places.” 

“Beyond Punch’s powers, I’m afraid, ” Blanche 
interrupted, “and so beyond mine. I never in- 
tend to part company ; I don’t feel safe anywhere 
on the hill, as yet, off his back. As for Queenie, 
she’s a perfect Anne of Geierstein ; and I think 
Miss Irving is nearly as brave.” 

“I’ve quite forgotten my mountaineering,” 
Alice said} “but I’m not in the least tired, and 
I own I should like to see the drive ; yet it seems 
so selfish to leave you here alone. • Perhaps you 
won’t be alone, though ; for, as far as I can see, 
papa looks too comfortable to move just yet.” 

“Infinitely too comfortable, my child,” Cap- 
tain Irving said serenely. “I wouldn’t climb a 
hundred feet higher to see a drive of golden 
eagles. I can’t promise to amuse Mrs. Ramsay, 
but I promise to take all care of her till you re- 
turn : I suppose nothing more terrible than a 
hill-fox is likely to come near us.” 

The rest of the party set off', making for the 
head of the hollow. It was a steep and broken 
ascent, but nowhere an absolute escalade ; and 
— with the exception of Mr. Brancepeth, who 
plodded onwards slowly and soberly, taking a 
line of his own — not one of the climbers was fair- 
ly out of breath when they reached a broad neck 
of table-land, with higher ground on either side, 
about the centre of which the guns were to be 
posted. There had been built across here a rude 
stone wall, about breast-high, with loop-holes 
through which the birds could be marked some 
sixty yards ahead. When the four men had 
aligned themselves under this at regular dis- 
tances, they nearly covered the pass. Brance- 
peth and Vane had the midmost stands, and to 
the latter of these went La Reine Gaillarde. She 
was going double or quits of all her winnings on 
the event of this drive, and chose, she said, to 
see with her own eyes that the Colonel shot fair, 
without claiming other peaple’s birds. The de- 
moiselle seemed to be hesitating under whose 
protection she should place herself, when Ram- 
say said — 

“Will you come to my stand, Miss Irving ? 
You won’t see such good practice as if you were 


71 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


in Alsager’s, for my hand is rather out for this 
work ; but I suppose I’m morally responsible for 
your safety till I bring you back to your father.” 

Judging from Alice’s face, the arrangement 
seemed to her also the most natural one. Nei- 
ther did Vere Alsager look a whit discontented, 
as he moved away to his post ; indeed he laugh- 
ed a little, as he muttered to himself — 

“Moral responsibility! That’s rather a neat 
way of putting it. There’s no story in those 
eyes, is there, Mark ? I wonder if you’ll say as 
much to-morrow. It must have come sooner or 
later ; but it’s hard lines on the other — that it 
should come so soon — d — d hard!” 

And Vere bit off the end of a cigar with vi- 
cious emphasis ; but a minute later he was smok- 
ing tranquilly, and listening with all his ears for 
the first “Mark over.” 

“You needn’t be a mouse just yet,” Ramsay 
said, as his companion seated herself on a broad 
flat stone ; ‘ 1 the beaters can hardly have got 
round. And this is your first experience of 
grouse-driving, I believe ?” 

“ My first of any kind of shooting. I’ve nev- 
er yet been close to a gun when it was fired : so 
if I start you must not be too scandalized. I’ll 
promise not to scream.” 

“No, you won’t scream,” he said. “ I fancy 
your nerves don’t often fail you. It’ll be rather 
deafening at first, I’m afraid ; but you’ll soon get 
steady under fire. ” 

“ One soon gets used to most things,” she said 
with an odd sort of smile. And then there was 
silence ; for a shout, barely audible, gave warn- 
ing that the drive had begun. 

A few seconds later, even Alice’s inexperienced 
ears caught a whirr and whistle of wings. 

“ They’re coming our line,” Mark whispered, 
peering through his loop-hole. “Shall I shoot 
this time?” 

Her eyes flashed eagerly. 

4 ‘ Shoot ? Of course ! How can you ask me ?” 

Eleven grouse came sailing low over the neck, 
right before the wind, scarcely swaying their pin- 
ions, though they were at top speed. When they 
were within fifty yards or so, Mark showed his 
head and shoulders over the wall. The wary old 
cock who led the pack, having no time to swerve, 
towered upwards with a startled cry ; but the 
best part of an ounce of No. 5 breasted him as 
he rose, and he left his life in the air, though the 
impetus of flight carried him within a fathom of 
the wall. Mark was equally lucky with his sec- 
ond barrel — an easy cross-shot to the left. 

“A good beginning,” he said, smiling — not so 
much at his own success as at his companion’s 
satisfaction, for Alice fairly clapped her hands in 
triumph — “ and you never even started, I do be- 
lieve.” 

“ No ; I — I forgot to be frightened,” she said 
half-penitently. 

‘ ‘ Well, mind you don’t remember it next time. 
There are more coming ; but to the centre guns. 
Ah ! I think Lady Laura is not quite so mouse- 
like as — you are. I’ve no doubt she’s accounta- 
ble for Vane’s only getting one barrel in, and that 
when they had passed him.” 

For some moments afterwards, and indeed till 
the beaters came up, the firing was so sharp all 
along the line that there was no leisure for talk- 
ing. Out of twenty-six grouse gathered there 
and then, besides three more stone dead just be- 


low the brow, Alsager — as Ramsay had predict- 
ed — claimed the largest share. So La Reine 
landed her paroli , though Vane submitted with 
a laughing protest. 

“ I do admire your idea of * seeing fair,’ Lady 
Laura. How on earth do you expect a man to 
shoot, when some one always offers to back the 
bird just as he’s covering it ? It’s much more 
nervous work than standing opposite the pigeon- 
traps with the Ring behind you. ” 

“ You’re very ungrateful, ” she retorted ; “you 
ought to thank me for furnishing you with ex- 
cuses for all those misses. Pearl grays, six and 
three-quarters, mind ; and I have a weakness for 
Melnotte.” 

“Well, I suppose I’d better pay and look pleas- 
ant,” the Colonel said resignedly. “ Ponly hope 
I shall live to see them worn out ; but I decline 
to plunge any more.” 

Then they descended again into the hollow, 
where Mrs. Ramsay and Irving were reclining 
contentedly ; and the non-shooting members of 
the luncheon-party started off homewards. Mark 
looked after them rather wistfully. If he had 
followed his own inclination, he certainly would 
have struck work there and then ; but he had a 
certain conscience in these matters, and felt him- 
self bound to see Mr. Brancepeth through the 
day. That methodical person had a great hor- 
ror of any alteration in the programme, and 
would have considered himself more than shab- 
bily treated if he had been left to finish their ap- 
pointed beat alone. 

“What do you think of them, Queenie?” Mrs. 
Ramsay asked, as the two women came down 
stairs together after changing their walking- 
dress. “ Are they not quite as clever and agree- 
able as you expected ?” 

“Rather more so,” the other replied; “but 
I’m not quite so wrapped up in them as you all 
seem to be. I don’t know how it is, but I can’t 
look at either of them without thinking of the old 
Scotch proverb, ‘Fair and false.’ There’s too 
much gloss about the father quite to please me ; 
and the daughter — handsome as a picture, I ad- 
mit — is rather too much like one’s idea of Cleo- 
patra.” 

“Don’t be cynical,” Blanche interrupted ; “it 
isn’t like you. I dare say they are just as honest 
as humdrum people, though they have much more 
to say for themselves. I was quite sorry when 
you all came back this afternoon. You have no 
idea how amusing Captain Irving can be when 
he chooses.” 

“ Well, you’d better go on with the flirtation,” 
La Reine rejoined; “meanwhile I’ll submit to 
be fascinated by the Signorina.” 

Fascinated Lady Laura was not ; but, before 
dressing -time came, she accused herself more 
than once of lack of charity in her first impres- 
sions of Alice Irving. 

It was in the evening, however, that Drumour 
achieved its crowning success. All the Kenlis par- 
ty were more or less musically inclined ; though 
perhaps only Alsager was thoroughly able to ap- 
preciate the vocal powers of the father and daugh- 
ter. One duet, especially, roused Mr. Brance- 
peth himself into something like enthusiasm. 
The great drawing-room was a trying place for 
singing ; but their voices, single or blended, 
seemed to fill it without an effort or the strain- 
ing of a note; and a marvellous softness per- 


72 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


vailed the rich volume of sound. Lady Laura 
and Vane were as vehement in their admiration 
as Blanche herself could desire ; and Alsager — 
himself no mean performer, and quite aware of 
the fact — did homage, in his own fashion, to su- 
perior talent ; for, though he never left the piano 
after the Irvings came to it, he could not himself 
be prevailed upon to utter a note. During all 
the singing, Mark sat a little apart, shading his 
face with his hand, and, when it was over, paid 
his acknowledgments in couVteous commonplaces. 
But their glances met for two seconds — no more 
— as he wished Alice good-night, and the lady’s 
rest was broken by no misgivings as to the com- 
pleteness of her triumph. She had been compli- 
mented on her voice, ere now, by those whose 
favorable verdict carried wjth it fame ; but Ram- 
say’s look flattered her as she had never been 
flattered before. 

There are vanities and vanities, you see. Even 
in her failings, Alice might have boasted — with- 
out any special cause for thankfulness — that she 
was not as other women. 

The smoking-room held four that night ; for 
Mr. Brancepeth, living by rule, seldom allowed 
his feet to stray into such unhallowed places. As 
for Captain Irving — he “never touched tobacco,” 
he said ; “ but, keeping regularly late hours, did 
not choose to risk his night’s rest by seeking it 
too early. ” Before long the conversation turned 
upon play, apropos of some recent Parisian scan- 
dal. 

“ I’ve given up heavy wagering,” Irving said ; 
“ or rather, it’s given me up. But, I own, I’ve 
missed my piquet dreadfully since I’ve settled 
down here. I could have taught Alice, for she’s 
quick enough to learn any thing; but I’m too 
old to play for love. I don’t think I should ever 
have left Darmstadt if Bernsdorff hadn’t died. 
You never knew him, I dare say. He had a per- 
fect passion for the game ; and he won two hun- 
dred points of me — we played the Russian rules 
— within twenty-four hours of his end. He was 
the Grand Duke’s favorite chamberlain, and a 
great loss to society in every way ; but I doubt 
if any one regretted him as much as I did. I’ve 
never slept ‘ on both ears’ since. I should be 
quite happy at Drumour if I had my parti. ” 

“Then I hope you’ll be tempted to come oft- 
ener to Kenlis,” Mark answered, ringing the bell 
at his elbow; “you’ll always find it here; and 
the least we can do is to try to amuse you, after 
the treat you gave us this evening. It’s my fa- 
vorite game, and I used to fancy myself at it : 
I’ve no doubt you’ll take the conceit out of me.” 

To Alsager, the change on Irving’s face was 
quite a study; and Vane too — not near so keen 
a physiognomist — remarked on it afterwards. 
Listless languor had given place to hungry eager- 
ness ; yet, to do the man justice, it was not the 
eagerness of greed, but rather that of the thor- 
oughpaced gambler, to whom losing at play is 
the second pleasure in life. Not less strange was 
it to mark how, by mere force of habit, while the 
cards were being dealt, his face settled down 
again into statuesque calmness — only the eyes 
glittered still. 

The match, to all outward appearances, was so 
even as would have interested both, if they 'had 
been playing for stamps instead of sovereigns. It 
was only a run of luck just at last, that brought 
off Mark the winner of the odd game. 


“I’m not a Croesus,” Captain Irving observed, 
as he opened his purse ; ‘ ‘ but I should not grudge 
losing that every night for a week to come. You 
play, I think, a shade better than Bernsdorff.” 

The other shook his head. 

“ I doubt if I could quite hold my own in the 
long-run ; though I do think, between us, it’s 
very much a question of cards.” 

“I hope he will sleep well,” Mark observed, 
as the door closed behind Captain Irving. ‘ ‘ That 
estimable person has ministered more to my 
amusement to-night than any one has done for 
years past ; I’m rather tired, though. What do 
you say to a regular driving day to-morrow ? The 
women would like it.” 

“ Two of them would, no doubt,” Alsager an- 
swered, “and I dare say Mrs. Ramsay wouldn’t 
mind. So the ‘ moral responsibility’ wasn’t too 
much for you to-day, Mark ? I’m glad of that. 
Considering how short a time you’ve been head 
of a household, you take pretty kindly to your 
burdens. What an organ she has, though ! I 
quite forget to look at the woman in listening to 
the voice.” 

“Ah ! you’re a fanatico ,” Mark said, not no- 
ticing the thrust at himself ; “ that makes all the 
difference. Good-night, and musical dreams.” 

— .. . ■ ■ <> - — 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The women certainly did like it, when the pro- 
gramme for the day was propounded at break- 
fast. The ground to be driven lay nearly oppo- 
site the castle, on the other side of the loch, and 
it was easily to be reached by the help of the 
ponies sent round to await them on the farther 
shore. Nevertheless, Captain Irving elected to 
stay at home, declaring himself not equal even to 
that exertion. He had rather better health than 
the majority of his compeers ; but his maladif 
appearance was always a convenient excuse for 
laziness. The weather was perfect again ; and, 
before noon, the guns, with the fair spirits, their 
ministers, were duly posted under stands built up 
of turf and heather. Two of the pairs were the 
same as yesterday : Mrs. Ramsay was under Al- 
sager’s charge. 

“ It rather went against my conscience to leave 
your father at home alone,” Mark observed to his 
companion as he made a seat for her on a folded 
plaid; “particularly after his good-nature last 
night. It’s not often you find a man of his age 
so willing to exert himself for other people’s pleas- 
ure. It was so perfectly evident, too, that there 
was no vanity about it.” 

“No, papa isn’t vain,” Alice assented. Con- 
sidering his habitual courtesy, it was odd that 
Mark still so persisted in ignoring her share in 
the performance, and odder still that the omis- 
sion did not seem to disappoint her in the least. 
“And he’s generally very good-natured, though 
rather inclined to be capricious. I have known 
him refuse to sing a note when most persons 
would have been glad of the occasion for display, 
and where requests passed for commands. He 
was disinterested, too, last night, for he could 
scarcely have reckoned on his reward so soon. I 
never asked him a question, I assure you ; but I 
guessed by his face this morning that he had Ins 
piquet before going to bed. Was I wrong ?” 


73 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


“ Perfectly right. And perhaps you guessed, 
too, that he left off a good winner?” 

“No ; my gifts don’t go so far. I have asked 
the question of his face often, and it has very 
seldom answered me. I am afraid he would nt>t 
be less grateful to you — or whoever it was that 
made up his partie — if he got up a loser. It was 
you, I feel certain.” 

“Right again,” Mark answered ; “but why 
do you say afraid ? I rather admire the grand, 
seigneur w r ay of accepting bad luck, you know.” 

She smiled very sadly, and her head drooped 
a little. 

‘ * I have good reason to say ‘ afraid. ’ We are 
too poor to play the grand seigneur , either at 
home or abroad. I’m not a bit ashamed of speak- 
ing frankly to you, Mr. Ramsay, though I suppose 
I ought to be. I have no idea what stakes you 
were playing for last night — nominal ones, I dare 
say. It always begins so.” 

Her head drooped lower and lower. 

“ I don’t ask you not to tempt him to play 
deep — I’m sure you wouldn’t do that — but I do 
beseech you — O, so earnestly ! — not to be tempt- 
ed yourself. Can you promise me this ? You 
can’t imagine what a rest it is to lie down at night 
not in fear and trembling ; and I did hope for 
that rest here.” 

‘ ‘ I would promise a much harder thing,” Mark 
answered, bending over her. “We only played 
for sovereigns last night : the stakes shall not be 
increased if I can help it ; and I can help it, I 
feel sure. I always used to avoid high play un- 
der my own roof, even in the old days ; and Cap- 
tain Irving can’t have much worse gambling sins 
to answer for than I, though he may have more. ” 

Her face as she lifted it was grave still, though 
not sad. 

“ There are very, very few like him. I would 
almost as soon — don't ask me why — that he 
should lose as win heavily. Gambling runs in 
the blood, like any other madness, I suppose ; it 
runs in ours assuredly. If it had not been for 
the law of entail, Drumour would have passed 
away from us long, long ago. Did you ever read, 
or hear of, that horrible stoYy of a man setting 
his wife’s honor on a cast when he had no other 
stake left, and losing — and paying ? Duncan Ir- 
ving did all this when he was in exile in Holland 
with Charles II., and added a double murder to 
the shame. The direct line ends with us ; for 
my father has no child living but me : so perhaps 
the curse will be abated. Let us drop the sub- 
ject, please. I’m so glad I had courage to speak 
out ; I shall feel quite safe now both at Kenlis 
and Drumour.” 

“ Yes, you are quite safe with me,” Mark said 
very quietly; nevertheless there was something 
in his look that brought the color out brightly 
on Alice’s cheek, and sent her eyes earthwards 
again. 

Neither, so long as converse was permissible, 
was there silence in the other stands, save in that 
one where Mr. Brancepeth sat with his loader — 
he still stuck to his favorite Purdeys — a satur- 
nine Scot, whose garrulity was limited to “ Mark 
right,” “ Mark left or a gruff “ Gude wark,” 
after a peculiarly creditable shot. 

La Reine Gaillarde and her cavalier were in 
great amity this morning, and were talking of 
old Marlshire times quite confidentially. 

“What an utter fool I made of myself,” the 


Colonel confessed with great frankness; “and 
wjiat a nice example I set my youngsters ! It 
must have been great fun for you all to watch me, 
though. Do you remember the meet at Pinker- 
ton Wood ?” 

“I should think I did remember it. You 
quite spoiled our hunting that day — Blanche’s, I 
mean, and mine — with the fright you gave us. I 
have never looked at the Swarle since without a 
sort of shiver. What became of The Plunger, 
by-the-by ?” 

“He went up to Tattersall’s with the rest,” 
Yane answered; “and I got a plaintive note 
soon afterwards from the man who bought him, 
asking me how he was to ride him. Cool that, 
wasn’t it? I wrote back that the brute only 
wanted humoring; but I didn’t give my horses 
character for any thing but soundness. So she 
was frightened a little ? I shouldn’t have thought 
it likely. Well, I bear no malice, God knows, to 
her, or her husband either. Perhaps it was for 
the best, after all. If she had said 4 Yes’ instead 
of ‘No,’ I should never have suited her as he 
seems to do. They are perfectly happy ; don’t 
you think so ?” 

“Wonderfully happy, if it only lasts,” she an- 
swered rather gravely. ‘ ‘ So you actually did 
propose? I always guessed as much, though I 
never could make that little wretch own it. It’s 
pleasant to be abte to talk over old times com- 
fortably : but we mustn’t chatter any more. If 
you don’t shoot quite up to the mark, it won’t be 
any fault of mine ; my sympathies are against 
the birds to-day. ” 

For the first time since his arrival Alsager 
found himself alone with his hostess. He was 
rather glad of the opportunity of improving their 
acquaintance ; for his first liking for Blanche had 
much strengthened of late, and he fancied that 
the favorable impression was to a certain extent 
mutual. 

“Wouldn’t that make a good sketch?” Vere 
observed, after they had duly complimented the 
weather. 

He pointed to a ravine on their right, widen- 
ing into a glen as it trended down to the loch, 
so that a broad strip of clear water filled up the 
background. 

“I was just thinking so,” she returned ; “but 
I can only admire points of view, unluckily. It’s 
very different with you, Mr. Alsager. I’m sure 
you have not left your paints and brushes behind 
you in the South.” 

“ They would be of little use here. I, too, can 
only admire still life. I never could accomplish 
a landscape worth the framing, and I can’t afford, 
to spoil canvas. I can manage a recognizable 
portrait now and then ; for I’ve a sort of knack 
of catching expressions that please me, though I 
may fail in bringing out the features. Do you 
know, Mrs. Ramsay, I thought of asking you to 
indulge me with a sitting on the first hopelessly 
bad day ? The rain-gauge will come to its level 
before long, depend upon it.” 

“I’m very much flattered, of course,” Blanche 
answered; “but it would be rather a waste of 
talent whilst such a much better model is avail- 
able.” 

Alsager smiled as he followed her glance till it 
rested on a figure in the extreme left-hand stand. 

“ You’re quite right ; it is a superb model for 
a master du genre . Boulanger, for instance, 


74 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


would go leagues to paint her. But I’m not a 
master — only a mild amateur, with more than 
my share of professional whims. I said, if you 
remember, that I could sometimes catch expres- 
sions that please me. I’m not quite sure that 
Miss Irving’s comes into that category. ” 

The wonder in her face was not affected. 

“ What can you find to cavil at ? I was quite 
struck by the sweetness of her expression the first 
time we saw her ; and it is a beauty that grows 
on you.” 

“ Very sweet,” he said, still smiling, “ and 
perhaps a little — ever so little — subtle. At any 
rate, it’s beyond me. I could listen to her — or, 
better still, to her and her father — for hours with 
my eyes shut, and it would be ungrateful to car- 
icature her. So, if you don’t condescend to sit 
to me, my brushes will lie idle — no great loss, 
either, to the world in general. ” 

Much of the coquettish leaven that had made 
Blanche Ellerslie so dangerous lingered still in 
Blanche Ramsay. She was pleased by the pref- 
erence assuredly, and showed this ; but the next 
minute her glance reverted somewhat wistfully 
to that group on the left. 

“Artists are not to be contradicted,” she said ; 
“ so I suppose you must have your way ; but I 
think that even Mark would pity your taste. He 
must admire her, I’m certain, though he’s never 
fairly owned it yet. ” 

It was a question, though not a direct one, 
and so Vere interpreted it. For a little while 
he doubted within himself whether those words 
were spoken in simplicity, or with a purpose of 
entrapping him. Taking the charitable view, at 
last, he answered quite frankly : 

“ Yes, I fancy he must admire her ; though I 
only speak by conjecture. Mark is not expan- 
sive at any time, and on the present occasion I 
haven’t detected even a spark of enthusiasm. He 
called me a fanatic only last night for speaking 
of Miss Irving’s voice — well, not a bit more high- 
ly than it deserved.” 

There was a long pause. Then Blanche said 
softly : 

“You are such a very, very old friend of 
Mark’s, Mr. Alsager, that I can hardly realize 
you arid I were strangers six months ago. That 
is why I am going to ask you something that you 
need not answer unless you like. Do you think 
I make him really — thoroughly — happy ?” 

Vere Alsager had little charity for his kind to 
spare ; but if, Avithout power to help or warn, he 
had been forced to watch the hungry sea sAval- 
loAving up, inch by inch, the rock on which a fair 
.woman lay sleeping, it is likely that he Avould 
have been affected by some such thrill of compas- 
sion as he felt then, looking down on Blanche 
Ramsay. Nevertheless, he answered as cheerful- 
ly as if he saw no peril in the future. 

1 1 Our oldest friends don’t carry windows in 
their breasts ; but, speaking according to my own 
light, I think you may feel quite at ease on that 
point. You have read that old story of Poly- 
crates’ ring? Well, I actually suggested some 
such set-off against good luck to Mark not a Aveek 
ago, and his chief objection to it Avas, if I remem- 
ber right, that there Avas nothing he should miss 
sufficiently except — his wife.” 

A bright glow of pleasure possessed her face 
for a second or two. Then it greAv pensive again 
as she repeated under her breath, 


“ Not a week ago !” 

Much to Vere’s relief, “Mark OA r er!” cams 
down the Avind just then, and stopped the con- 
versation for the present. 

To chronicle the sport at length, if it did not 
savor of A'ain repetition, Avould be pains throAvn 
away. To such as have approved them the 
sketch Avould seem colorless and faint ; to such 
as knoAv them not, no Avord-painting Avould Avor- 
thily set forth the various delights — never quite, 
though so nearly the same — of a clear August 
day so spent in Wildernesse. The patient up- 
Avard climb through glen and corrie, till the last 
brae is breasted and the posts attained — the rest 
just long enough to steady the nerves again 
amidst great peace, Avhich is not stillness ; for 
there is never stillness on the moorland Avhile 
curlew and plover are awake, or the Avestern 
breeze is stirring — the tingle of the pulse at the 
first whirr of coming wings — the self-approval 
when each shot is followed by a dull thud, and 
through the smoke of the second barrel you look 
for the crumpled heap of feathers that was a 
brave grouse-cock a second ago — the comparing 
of notes after the drive is done, Avhen our elab- 
orate defence of that palpable miss finds no fa- 
vor Avith a jury of our compeers, who will never 
allow that sun or cloud could possibly haA r e in- 
terfered in any aim but their own — the nooning, 
in the shadow of a “ brindled rock” within reach 
of the hill-spring that, Avhere it soaks through the 
moss, makes russet emerald — the conquest over 
a Avolfish appetite and intense thirst, achieved 
with a vieAv to straight poAvder thereafter — then 
the leisurely Avalk or ride that brings us home 
again ; Avhen the last pipe is flavored by a com- 
fortable consciousness of having done to death 
a certain number of one’s felloAv-creatures, in the 
merciful fashion that leaves feAV halt or maimed. 
Looking back on such a day in after-time, from 
the midst of Avork or Avorry, are you not prone to 
murmur 

Quando ullum inveniem parem ? 

It is sufficient to say that the drive was A r oted 
the completest success by every one concerned 
therein, either as actor or spectator , and that 
the whole party returned in great spirit to the 
castle, where they found the Solitary in a state 
of tranquil beatitude. 

“I’m ashamed to say hoAv much IVe enjoyed 
myself,” he said. “I like poking about old 
places above all things, and I haven’t exhausted 
Kenlis yet.” 

Perhaps it Avas on this account that Irving 
needed so little pressing to prolong his visit. 
After dinner they had music, of course, of a more 
desultory kind than on the eA-ening before ; and 
there Avas a good deal of confidential chat — peo- 
ple pairing off, much as they had done on the 
hill -side. Excitement and umvonted exercise 
acting on a delicate frame may fairly account for 
fatigue ; but, all this given in, Blanche wonder- 
ed, as she laid her head on her pillow that night, 
why she felt so very, very Aveary. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Quite half a century back, Menyne AA'as a sea- 
port of high credit and renown ; month by mcnth 
and year by year forging gradually ahead of her 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


75 


rivals in the colonial trade, and taking the wind 
out of their sails. Her merchants even then were 
noted for bold enterprise ; albeit rash adventurers 
were the exception rather than the rule, and gam- 
bling in stocks was no more in vogue there than 
French hazard. 

In those days there dwelt there a certain hard- 
working lawyer — James Welsted by name — with 
sufficient ability to keep together, without great- 
ly adding to, the modest connection he had in- 
herited from his father. His opinion carried 
some weight with it, even in matters not strictly 
professional ; chiefly because, if he erred, it was 
sure to be on the side of caution. In truth, if he 
had sometimes put the drag on wheels rolling to 
ruin, he had quite as often hindered rapid ad- 
vance to fortune. Such being the nature of the 
man, it may be supposed that no little wonder 
prevailed in Mervyne when it was noised abroad 
that James Welsted had invested all his savings 
— more than this, all the cash he could raise on 
credit — in the purchase of certain waste-lands 
lying along the farther shore of the estuary of 
the Mere. 

A drearier-looking estate could hardly be im- 
agined. The hungriest of cattle turned away 
from the rank, sour pasturage, and from the 
brackish pools. A feeble attempt had been made 
at establishing a rabbit-warren ; but even the 
hardy coney declined to colonize the wind-swept 
hillocks, with naught sweeter than bent-grass to 
satisfy his cravings. One or two small specula- 
tors had tried their hands at draining ; but, go 
as deep as they would, the ooze would soak 
through and poison the crop before it could 
sprout. The wiseacres shook their heads as they 
asked each other what James Welsted could 
possibly expect to make of his purchase. It w r as 
useless asking him that question ; for he could 
keep his own counsel not less religiously than 
that of his clients. Some of his intimates ex- 
pressed their misgivings aloud, whilst others ban- 
tered him on his proprietary ambition ; but the 
lawyer listened both to ridicule and warning with 
the same saturnine smile. Three years later he 
was, in outward appearance, the least astonished 
person in all Mervyne wdien it w r as discovered 
that every perch of those dreary marshes was 
worth more than the richest meadow acre that 
ever w r as mown, inasmuch as the site was abso- 
lutely necessary for the promotion of a gigantic 
dock scheme, just then set afoot by a powerful 
company, with the direct sanction of government. 
The drainage difficulties, which had exhausted 
the patience and the purses of the puny capital- 
ists Avho had hitherto tried experiments here, 
were mere child’s-play to the engineers who had 
already laid athwart Chat Moss a safe pathway 
for the “resonant steam - eagles. ” The w r ater 
Avas soon taught to observe order and method in 
its goings-out and comings-in ; the faithless fri- 
able soil was shovelled aside or crushed into con- 
sistency by the mere weight of stone. And so 
the great work went grandly on, Avhilst the Mer- 
vynites rubbed their eyes, scarcely believing in 
the winders wrought over against them ; much 
as the idlers may have done when the morning 
sun shone on the palace built for Aladdin by the 
cunning architects of Jinnistan. 

The Avealth that thus flowed into the lawyer’s 
coffers, if not absolutely colossal — he drove no 
usurious bargain with the dock company — was 


large enough to make him at once a man of 
mark ; for the days of fabulous speculation w r ere 
not as yet ; and seldom, even on the Stock Ex- 
change, were there attempts to emulate the coup 
which, after Waterloo was won, made Roth- 
schild’s name scarce less famous than the Iron 
Duke’s. At any rate, James Welsted was so 
content with his gains that he never strove to 
augment them. Men, who had been used to pass 
him by as an honest humdrum plodder, bowed 
themselves now before his shrewd foresight, and 
besought him to cast upon their enterprises the 
light of his countenance. Without the shadow 
of risk, he might have made tens of thousands 
by simply trafficking on his name. But at none 
of those baits, however tempting, did he ever so 
much as nibble, and so what was added to his 
pile was only the superfluity of income which re- 
mained over at each year’s end. Sooth to say, 
these savings rolled up apace : James Welsted 
was none of those who become spendthrifts after 
their beards are gray, and the woman he married 
somewhat late in life had much the same homely 
tastes as her husband. He gave up his profes- 
sion at once — for he loved not labor for labor’s 
sake — and, after due circumspection, once more 
invested large moneys in land. 

Kineton was a fine place, certainly ; but not 
large enough to carry with it much territorial in- 
fluence, and therefore, perhaps, the better suited 
to James Welsted’s requirements. Though he 
was neighborly enough in all essential ways, he 
never sought to take rank amongst the county 
magnates — as he might easily have done, without 
fear of discouragement on their part — and stood 
scrupulously aloof from politics. After he had 
dwelt there a dozen years or more, his wife 
died, and thenceforth his habits were complete- 
ly changed. lie was one of those plain, prac- 
tical people who never gain credit for deep feel- 
ings, but who, nevertheless, recover more slow- 
ly from a home-blow than many sentimentalists 
who establish a claim on our sympathy by dint 
of parading their mourning-Aveeds. A stranger, 
Avalking by the Avidower’s side as he folloAved the 
coffin up the aisle, would scarcely have guessed 
at the love which had bound those tAvo together. 
The haggardness of his countenance might have 
been set doAvn to long Avatching quite as much 
as fo grief ; and there Avere no tears in his heavy, 
doAvncast eyes. But he neA’er lifted his head or 
looked the Avorld fairly in the face again. His 
only child Avas scarcely fourteen, so there Avas no 
absolute reason to drag him into society. 

Before four years were passed James Welsted 
had done Avith his duties tOAvards his neighbor,, 
and had written up his account Avith God. Be- 
sides soitoav for his dead Avife, the old man’s lat- 
ter days Avere troubled Avith misgivings as to the 
future of his orphan heiress. Of all the texts in 
Scripture — and he was a simple, conscientious, 
if not a very earnest Christian — there Avere none 
that carried more thorough conviction to his 
mind than those which touched on the snares en- 
compassing the possessors of great riches. Nev- 
ertheless, it must be OAvned that it Avas for his 
child’s Avorldly Avelfare he Avas chiefly concerned. 
Fond as he Avas of her — proud, too, in a certain 
fashion — he did not invest his daughter Avith fic- 
titious personal or mental attractions. He ac- 
knoAvledged to himself that the suitor Avho should 
seek Mary Welsted Avithout a single mercenary 


76 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


motive was not likely to be found. His long le- 
gal experience had taught him to estimate pretty 
accurately the chances of happiness where, on 
one side at least, the marriage contract is signed 
in a purely commercial spirit. However, such 
of these misgivings as he kept not entirely to 
himself were confided only to the trusty friend 
whom he appointed Mary’s chief guardian ; and 
there were found in his will few harder condi- 
tions than he must needs have insisted on had he 
lived to dispose of her hand. And so — having to 
■' the best of his ability made his provisions, and 
set his house in order — honest James Welsted 
went contented to his rest. 

Is there any older simile than that one which 
symbolizes man’s strength and woman’s weak- 
ness by the alliance of the elm and the vine ? 
Perchance, years and years before the battered 
hull carrying iEneas drifted landwards under 
the Iapygian Cape, singers dallied with the con- 
ceit, and maidens smiled assent, nestling closer 
to the side of their Pelasgian lovers. Every age 
since then must have furnished millions of in- 
stances where a conversion of terms would have 
brought us nearer to the truth ; but they have 
become so multiplied of late that even the as- 
pirants to the honors of the Eisteddfodd would 
scarcely venture on the comparison. Putting 
aside the professional advocates of woman’s rights 
— simply because they represent womanhood no 
more than the Leaguers represent Liberalism — 
female emancipation has spread so far already, 
that it seems to me the best thing we can do, in 
presence of these wise virgins and matrons, is 
to stand aside — proffering neither counsel nor 
championship till they are absolutely required of 
us, and hoping that the Lemnian revolution may 
not repeat itself just yet. 

A fitter representative of the Independent 
. party than Mary Welsted could scarcely have 
been found. As the helpmeet of an ambitious 
business-man, she would have been thoroughly 
in her right place, and would have turned out, 
not only a more useful, but a more agreeable 
member of society. As it was, her obstinate en- 
ergy had nothing substantial to work upon ; and, 
from mere lack of outlet, fermented sometimes 
angrily. Her faults did not spring from badness 
of heart, or even from any peculiar infirmity of 
temper. She was large-handed in her charities, 
and spent the money of which, long before she 
came to years of discretion, she had unlimited 
command, liberally enough ; though, even at 
that early age, she had very just notions of the 
value of a pound sterling. She bore herself a 
little imperiously sometimes, but never tyranni- 
cally, towards her dependents, and had fewer ca- 
prices than most spoiled children. Neverthe- 
less, it would have been as gross flattery to call 
Mary Welsted amiable, as it would have been to 
call her beautiful. 

She herself was quite conscious of this — pain- 
fully conscious, too. Even strong-minded wom- 
en, until their moral training is perfected, are not 
always exempt from personal vanity ; and it is 
often the last weakness that they vanquish. 

From the time that she could distinguish good 
from evil, Mary Welsted had seldom looked into 
her mirror without discontent and envy ; and as 
she passed from childhood, this feeling was rath- 
er embittered than softened. The large, clumsy 
figure, that no device of millinery could refine ; 


the high, coarse complexion, that no combina- 
tion of colors could tone down ; the pale, dull 
eyes, that never brightened even in anger — the 
wealth, that would have enabled her to fill a gal- 
lery with masterpieces of modern and ancient 
art, could not alter one of these defects. She 
had her fair share of natural abilities, but none 
of the rare talent that often more than supplies 
the lack of surface beauty. And so it came to 
pass, though neither confessed it to the other, 
that both father and daughter asked of them- 
selves the same dreary question, “Is it likely 
that any man will come wooing here in truth 
and honor ?” and got from their hearts the same 
dreary answer. 

But as she could not fret herself thin, Mary 
Welsted was much too sensible a girl to fret her- 
self to death over any dispensation of Providence. 
She had a capital constitution, and a keen appre- 
ciation of the good things of this life. When the 
year of mourning for her father had expired — 
and very sincere mourning it was — she went 
forth into the world with a firm determination to 
make the best of it. Her chief guardian was a 
wise and prudent elder, able and willing to take 
excellent care of his ward’s temporal concents, 
but utterly unfitted to escort her in society. In- 
deed, his name, so honored on ’Change, was 
scarcely known west of The Bar. 

Lady Mandrake was the Welsteds’ nearest 
county neighbor. She was a dame of stainless 
repute, and had married off’ both her own daugh- 
ters creditably. So to her care the orphan heir- 
ess was committed, and she readily undertook 
the charge. 

There is not much, perhaps, of the ancient Ro- 
man about the modem fortune-hunter, but Ves- 
pasian himself could not be more philosophically 
indifferent as to the source of the golden stream 
wherein he would slake his thirst. However, 
this particular Pactolus might have been traced 
to its fountain-head without aught being discov- 
ered to offend the most squeamish nostrils. Even 
in point of birth there was not much to quarrel 
with : Miss Welsted’s father, and grandfather to 
boot, were “ esquires by act of Parliament and 
her mother sprung, to say the least of it, from 
the haute bourgeoisie. So, at the advent of the 
new heiress, there was such a stir amongst the 
aspirants and their patronesses as might have 
been seen in old times on Amsterdam quays 
when some stately argosy dropped anchor, hail- 
ing from Indian waters. Men who, in the days 
when Lady Mandrake had daughters on hand, 
had voted her evenings slow, and only lounged 
in there for a few minutes as an act of penance 
or duty, took pains to make their invitations 
sure, and never by any chance were engaged 
elsewhere. The dame herself was much too 
shrewd and worldly-wise not to be sensible of 
the indifference, but it chafed her not a whit. 
Her own brood were comfortably settled in their 
well-feathered nests, and she bore no malice to 
the stranger for weayng more gorgeous plum- 
age. She estimated the importance of her posi- 
tion aright, and made good use of it, you may be 
sure : there is always a certain satisfaction in 
being courted, be the proxy ever so palpable. 

In the course of her first season Miss Welsted 
was credited with three distinct offers, one of 
which seemed perfectly unexceptionable : all 
three were declined quite as decisively as was 


77 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


consistent with courtesy. There was a good 
deal of republicanism in this young person’s 
composition ; and for aristocrats, as a class, she 
had small veneration or liking, though, socially 
speaking, she found them easier to get on with 
than the scions of the plutocracy. But a part- 
ner for a cotillon , and a partner for life, are two 
very different things. She had no mind to enter 
a great family, where she might expect such a 
welcome as a poor, proud German princeling 
might accord to some potent Hebrew financier. 
She did not fancy that the faults of her figure 
and face could be amended by the wearing of a 
coronet or peeress’ robes ; and she thought there 
were better investments than contingent rever- 
sions ever so brilliant and proximate. If it 
must needs be a question of barter, she was re- 
solved at least to have her money’s worth in the 
ample fulfilment of her own fancy. Moreover, 
by receiving nothing while she bestowed all, she 
had at least a chance of securing gratitude, even 
if she failed in winning love. 

Lady Mandrake — a stanch Conservative in all 
her ways — had little sympathy with such Radi- 
cal notions ; but, even if she had not been con- 
tent to prolong her own pleasant responsibility, 
she was too discreet to urge her charge into mat- 
rimony generally, much less to compromise her- 
self by advocating any special suitor’s claims. 
Yet dark and overcast waxed the brow of the 
august matron when, early in their second sea- 
son, she discovered that her heiress was no lon- 
ger fancy-free, and guessed where the preference 
had fallen. 

Miss Welsted was intensely fond of vocal mu- 
sic ; and amongst her physical defects a weak, 
intractable organ was the one she regretted 
most. Just before leaving town in the previous 
summer, she heard Horace Kendall’s voice for 
the first time. It seemed to her that she had 
never listened to its equal. Many others sang 
that night — he, not again : but Mary Welsted 
went home with certain cadences floating in her 
ears which haunted them long and often after- 
wards — cadences of that wonderful love-song, 
all the more passionate because there mingle in 
it so many notes of a dirge, the farewell of the 
doomed troubadour. 

She was not one of those who, if a fancy can- 
not instantly be gratified, straightway forget it 
and take up a new one. All through the au- 
tumn and winter she kept one purpose steadily 
before her — the becoming acquainted with Hor- 
ace Kendall. She came to town in the middle 
of the ensuing April, and before the 1st of May 
they were almost intimate. 

Now it might reasonably have been supposed 
that further acquaintance with Horace Kendall 
would have been the best possible cure for the 
distemper of her fancy. The stage tricks and 
mannerisms that might dazzle a romantic school- 
girl ought surely never to have beguiled plain 
common sense like Mary Welsted’s. There were 
his voice and face to be sure ; yet one would have 
thought that something more than attraction of 
eye and ear would have been needed to enthrall 
such a character as hers. But the whims of 
even strong-minded women are not to be meas- 
ured by any rule, unless it be the rule of con- 
traries. Day by day the preference of the heir- 
ess for the penniless adventurer — for such she 
knew Kendall to be — waxed stronger ; nor was 


she careful to conceal it. Whilst the season was 
yet young, others besides Tiernan guessed that 
the “ Welsted Cup was not now such an open 
race;” and the attendance at Lady Mandrake’s 
evenings fell off perceptibly. 

The strangest thing of all was that Kendall 
himself should so far have manifested no great 
eagerness to profit by his ’vantage-ground. His 
wildest dreams of ambition could scarcely have 
imagined a richer prize than that which seemed 
hanging within his grasp — a prize, moreover, to 
which men worthier tenfold than himself were 
known to aspire ; yet he hesitated to pluck it. 
Was it a cold calculation of the chances that 
caused him to forbear ? Or is there in the old 
worn adage, Nemo repent e J'uit turpissimus , some 
truth after all? Selfish, and treacherous, and 
cruel as he was, there was, perchance, enough of 
the red Provencal blood in the veins of Adele 
Deshon’s son to make him hesitate betwixt such 
a scanty dowry as Gwendoline Marston could 
bring, and the horn of plenty held in the larger 
hands of the Loamshire heiress. Moreover, in 
the lighter *scale there were cast the attractions 
of title and ancestry — always so tempting to the^ 
basely-born. So, for a while, the balance sway- 
ed almost evenly. 

Miss Welsted was as well aware of the state 
of things as if Kendall had confessed it in so 
many words. Matters had not yet come to such 
a pass betwixt them that she could question his 
actions, or indeed give any outward sign of jeal- 
ous discontent. But because she sedulously 
avoided even the mention of her rival’s name, it 
is not to be supposed that, either waking or sleep- 
ing, she ignored the other's existence, or hated 
her a whit less bitterly. Kendall was, as you 
know, forced to be very guarded in his bearing 
towards Nina Marston ; but Mary Welsted, short- 
sighted as she was, saw many things to which 
the world in general was blind; and often, as 
she drove homewards through the night by the 
side of her dozing chaperon, angry tears wetted, 
without cooling, her aching eyes. 

The heiress, as you will perceive, held undeni- 
ably strong cards, but not absolutely a game- 
hand, unless properly led up to. Such aid was 
rendered from an unexpected quarter, and quite 
undesignedly. Lord Daventry — his eldest son 
being yet of tender years — concerned himself not 
with the ‘ ‘ good things” of the marriage-market, 
and perhaps had not so much as heard of Miss 
Welsted’s name. If he hadjjeen a paid agent, 
he could not have forwarded her purposes more 
effectually than he did on a certain morning 
whereof mention lias been made above. 

A brave man who, either from force of circum- 
stances or consciousness of being fearfully in the 
wrong, has endured insult without resenting it, 
may, when the first bitterness is past, bear no 
malice to his adversary ; but very seldom, since 
the world began, has a coward forgiven the per- 
son that wrought him dishonor, or even those 
who indirectly had art or part therein ; there- 
fore you may judge in what frame of mind Ken- 
dall left Kensington Gardens after his interview 
with Nina’s father. All that day and evening, 
though he went into society as usual, he brooded 
over it, till he came to look on every one bearing 
the name of Marston as his natural enemy. It 
was with no gentler feeling that he tore open a 
note brought by the next morning’s post ; neither 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


78 

did his heart soften a whit as he read. Thus it 
ran : 

“/ ought to believe that these are the last words 
I shall ever ivrite to you ; yet I cannot believe it. 
They must be the last for a long , long time to 
come ; for I have promised. It is no use strug- 
gling now: perhaps some day I shall not be utter- 
ly helpless ; and then , if you still care , you shall 
see. You would not look up as I passed this morn- 
ing. liven if papa spoke harshly — it would not be 
like him if he did — you cannot possibly be angry 
with me. That would be too hard. 1 don't think 
you ever guessed — perhaps it is as well you never 
should guess now — how much I cared for you. 

“ / do so wish I could make you believe that , 
till I know for certain that you haae quite given 
me up , 1 shall never do or say a single thing you 
need mind. It is very foolish ; but I can't help 
hoping still that , if we ivere both patient and true , 
we might win the battle yet. At leasts I mean 
to try ; and will you not try too? You must not 
speak to me if we meet , and you must not answer 
this : it might make more mischief. Nothing that 
you can write would make me trust you more thor- 
oughly than I do ; and I would not fetter you with 
any promises , even if I could. My fetter has 
brought bad luck enough already. 1 send you 
back the key. Don't throw the poor thing away , 
though it got us into this scrape ; but look at it 
whenever you want to be reminded of me. And 
now, good-bye., dear. I pray — so earnestly — that 
God will make and keep you hapjnj , even if I 
never hear you say < ‘Nina' again." 

He unlocked the armlet at once, and flung it 
from him with a coarse laugh, very unlike that 
soft, subdued one with which society was fa- 
miliar. 

“ ‘Patient and true!’ — that’s a modest sug- 
gestion. So I am to live a sort of anchorite’s 
life for the next four years on the oflfehance of 
her people’s changing their mind, or of her being 
in the same when she comes to be her own mis- 
tress. Pas si bete, mademoiselle ! We have had 
enough of child’s-play and sentimentality. I 
have a much better game to play ; and I'll play 
it out in earnest now, by G — !” 

Every word in that letter was natural, and 
came straight from the heart ; yet every word in 
it was penned with infinite care, in the earnest 
hope that it would plead for the writer in the 
aftertime, when Gwendoline Marston and Horace 
Kendall must before the world be strangers. Did 
it deserve to fare better ? For myself, I do not 
care to answer that question. If damsels of high 
degree will derogate beyond reasonable limits, 
perhaps it is as well they should be schooled 
somewhat sharply. 

Years ago 1 remember assisting at an agricul- 
tural meeting in the Weald, which, after the se- 
rious toast-business had been got through, re- 
solved itself into a kind of harmonic meeting. 
Late in the evening a big bass-voiced farmer 
obliged the company with a song that was evi- 
dently a special favorite. Only the first out. of 
some twoscore verses abides in my memory : 

“Come, listen all unto my tale, 

And I’ll tell ye how it began: 

It’s all along of a lady fair 
That loved her serving-man.” 

In point of tune it was a very dolorous ditty ; 
but the description of the domestic felicity ensu- 
ing on the condescension of the person of quality 


was cheerful in the extreme. The stalwart Kent' 
ishmen smote on the board till the goblets jin- 
gled again — applauding, as it seemed, the senti- 
ment no less than the melody ; but if, the next 
morning, it had been noised abroad that the 
daughter of a neighboring squire had eloped with 
her father’s bailiff, I believe every man there 
present would have wagged his head disapprov- 
ingly, prophesying all manner of evil concerning 
the delinquents. 

The wedding-garment made up of diverse fab- 
rics, even if it be becoming, is seldom lasting 
— ay, though the cloth-of-gold be worn by so 
gracious a lady as the Duchess Mary, and the 
doth-of-frieze by so proper a gallant as Charles 
Brandon. 


CHAPTER XXV. • 

“Not wish to believe you? Why, I would 
give half I am worth — more than that — half my 
life, to believe !” 

Mary Welsted spoke these words with a pas- 
sion quite foreign to her steady, well-regulated 
temper. What had so moved her you shall hear. 

Since Horace Kendall resolved within himself 
to put aside “child’s-play,” and to follow up in 
earnest the better thing, he had shown no lack 
of either tact or energy. Not. that there was any 
great need of either. Mary Welsted was one of 
those downright women whose likes and dislikes 
are not easy to be misinterpreted, and who, how- 
ever humble in other matters, are apt occasion- 
ally to usurp royal privileges, by doing more than 
the passive share of courtship. She preferred 
Horace Kendall to all the world, and was not a 
whit loth that all the world — including, of course, 
the object of her preference — should be made 
aware of the fact. Whether that preference was 
wise or no, was quite another matter. She may 
possibly have asked herself that question more 
than once; but for some time past she had 
ceased to discuss it with herself, much less with 
others. 

It is not to be supposed that a model chaperon 
like Lady Mandrake would approve, or even con- 
nive at, such a dereliction in social duty as she 
was now compelled to witness almost daily. Nei- 
ther did the august matron confine her protest 
to dumb-show, but on one occasion spoke her 
mind pretty plainly. 

“ I am not thinking of money, my dear. If 
you had decided on marrying poor Hugo Cler- 
mont, who is cribU de dettes , and never can have 
more than three hundred a-year of his own, I 
should not have been surprised ; for you can per- 
fectly well afford it, and you would have gained 
something like a Position” (it was quite a treat 
to hear Lady Mandrake enunciate this word), 
“at all events. There is no need to look into 
Burke to find out who the Clermonts are. But 
here — good gracious! — what do you, tvhat does 
any one know about Mr. Kendall except that he 
is a clerk in the Rescript Office, with a fine voice, 
and a presentable face? If that’s all you look 
for in a husband, I wonder you don’t choose Fi- 
orelli from the Mesopotamian. His singing is 
infinitely better than the other’s, and lie’s much 
better looking, to my mind.” 

Miss Welsted flushed angrily, yet she chose 
to answer only the first part of the diatribe. 


79 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


“There is no accounting for taste, of course ; 
but I wonder you could not suggest somebody 
more attractive than Hugo Clermont — a creature 
with a head like a barber’s block, and not five 
ideas inside it. ” 

“ I don’t know how many ideas he may have,” 
the elder lady retorted ; “ but he expresses them 
like a gentleman, at all events, and that is more 
than can be said of Mr. Kendall. His affecta- 
tions are the most palpable counterfeits ; it quite 
fidgets me to watch him sometimes.” 

“I never denied that Mr. Clermont was a gen- 
tleman,” the other replied: “I never supposed 
a cousin of yours could be any thing else. Per- 
haps it is my faidt that we can't get on together. 
It is only quite lately that I have mixed in good 
society, remember. I dare say Mr. Kendall’s man- 
ner is not perfect, but it does not shock or fidget 
me. It is very true that we know nothing about 
his family, and perhaps Burke knows nothing ei- 
ther. Well, if I marry him, there will be no one 
to patronize me ; that’s one comfort, and not a 
small one either.” 

Lady Mandrake drew herself up majestically. 
She was a just and upright person in the main, 
though somewhat of a schemer, and throughout 
this affair had certainly been innocent of nepo- 
tism. 

“ I think you will regret that taunt about my 
cousin when you are cooler, Miss Welsted ; I 
have scarcely deserved it. I spoke according to 
my own ideas of duty. They are old-fashioned, 
perhaps, but I am not likely to change them. I 
did not pretend to any authority over you : I am 
not your guardian, and you are only under my 
charge so long as it suits your pleasure. I ought 
to apologize for having spoken to you as if you 
were my own daughter.” 

Mary Welsted's temper, although sufficiently 
obstinate, was not rancorous. When she felt her- 
self in the wrong, she was ready enough to con- 
fess it. 

“Iam sorry already, Lady Mandrake,” she 
said bluntly, “and of course it’s I who ought to 
apologize. You have been only too kind to me 
all along, and I am not going to quarrel with you 
for telling me I am a fool. I dare say I am ; but 
I can’t help it. Isn’t there a Fools’ Paradise 
somewhere or other ? Perhaps they will let us 
in there ; and you will come and see us some- 
times, I know, though you do look so grumpy 
about it! And now you are going to give me a 
kiss and make it up.” 

The elder dame did not put back the olive- 
branch or refuse the salute ; but, whilst she be- 
stowed it, she grumbled something under her 
breath about such infatuation being perfectly sin- 
ful. 

“Well, the sin must rest on my own shoul- 
ders,” Mary Welsted said with a laugh, “and 
they can bear it. ” 

As she spoke she glanced, with a kind of quaint 
humor, at the reflection of her own substantial 
person in the mirror hard by. 

Thus the course of courtship ran on smoothly 
enough — so smoothly that Horace Kendall, with 
all his fatuity, was sometimes surprised with the 
progress he made. It was strange certainly that 
the set speeches, which, even in the ears of such 
a romantic child as Nina Marston, did not always 
ring true, should pass current with one whose 
sound common sense verged on strong-minded 1 ' 


ness. Nor, in very deed, was Miss Welsted al- 
ways, or even often, imposed upon. She drank 
the poison — drank it greedily too — knowing it to 
be poison all the while. It was the old story of 
the opium-eater repeating itself, as it will do to 
the end of Time. The warning of all the doc- 
tors in Christendom cannot open the victim's 
eyes more thoroughly than they are opened al- 
ready to the properties of the fatal herb : he 
knows better than you can tell him what a price 
must be paid for each delicious dream ; and yet 
it would be easier to keep the wounded hart away 
from the water-brook than to teach him to re- 
frain. Nevertheless, the heiress was not so en- 
tirely given up to her own devices but that she 
hesitated a little when she had to answer to a di- 
rect question “ Yea” or “ Nay and, when Mr. 
Kendall became plaintive about her not wishing 
to believe in the disinterestedness of his attach- 
ment, it was with a bitterness savoring of self- 
contempt that she spoke the words set down at 
the commencement of this chapter. 

Kendall was not really much discouraged by 
this reply ; but if.his aspirations had been crushed 
decisively, his tone and manner could not have 
been more tenderly reproachful. 

“Is it so impossible, then, for a poor man to 
be honest? Will you judge only as the world 
judges ? I thought — I hoped — you would judge 
differently. Surely it was cruel not to have spared 
me this.” 

“There is no cruelty in the case,” she retorted 
in her abrupt way : “on my side, at least, there 
have been no false pretences. To the question 
you asked me just now I answer ‘Yes.’ Wait, 
don’t come any nearer yet. Having said so much, 
I say again that I would give half my life to feel 
quite sure that if I had been portionless — ay, or 
not richer than Gwendoline Marston — I should 
have heard you speak as you have spoken to- 
day.” 

In the flush of success Kendall had risen to his 
feet, with the evident intention of enacting all the 
forms of gratitude suitable to the circumstances ; 
but that impulse was checked, as you perceive ; 
and, as he stood still at a respectful distance from 
his affianced, his demeanor was scarcely that of 
a triumphant lover. 

“So you will half trust me in spite of worldly 
wisdom — Mary? (A slight pause made the word 
fall all the more musically.) “ Whole trust will 
come in time, I know, and I will be patient till 
it does come. I am glad you mentioned that 
name ; for if you have a shadow of suspicion in 
that quarter henceforth it will be your own fault, 
not mine. I don’t deny that I* have admired 
Lady Gwendoline ; but I declare, on my honor, 
that I ceased to think of her before I ever thought 
hopefully of winning you.” 

A dignified disclaimer, was it not, to be ut- 
tered by the lips of Adelo Deshon’s son? Very 
rarely, bo sure, does dVen a sensible woman see 
any outrageous absurdity in the self-assertion 
of the man she loves, when it is made at the ex- 
pense of her own sox. Conquests for which Ed- 
win would not gain credit with the most simple- 
minded of his club intimates he may parade be- 
fore Angelina, in the comfortable assurance not 
only of their being implicitly believed, but of their 
being retailed afterwards, under the strictest seal 
of secrecy, to Angelina’s select circle. And the 
odd part of it is, that it is not only the lady-par- 


80 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR 


amount of Edwin’s affections who is thus jealous 
of his amative renown. Araminta, whom every- 
body said he jilted so infamously, when she has 
finished bewailing her virginity or widowhood, 
as the case may be, seems equally anxious to 
prove that his fascinations have been fatal to oth- 
ers beside her hapless self, and will resent incre- 
dulity quite as fiercely. 

ller suitor’s sultanesque pose did not strike 
Mary Welsted as ridiculous. On the contrary, 
she felt more satisfied than she had hitherto done 
that he was speaking truth ; and so perhaps he 
was, or just so much of it as the Father of Lies 
would choose for the seasoning of his subtlest 
falsehood. Kendall was indeed definitely sev- 
ered from Nina Marston before ho seriously 
urged his suit to her rival. How the severance 
was effected was, of course, beside the ques- 
tion. 

‘ 4 Ceased to think of her ?” 

Why, even whilst he was gazing into the dull, 
unexpressive orbs, that after his most rapturous 
tirades scarcely brightened, he remembered what 
a light and lustre used to fill the superb Spanish 
eyes ; and even while he spoke of trust and pa- 
tience, he remembered who wrote, so lately, 
“Only be patient and true.” 

Though she had fair intuitive powers, Miss 
Welsted guessed at not one syllable of all this. 
And though the misgiving that she was acting 
unwisely had not vanished entirely, she had per- 
haps never felt happier in her life than when she 
stretched forth her hand to her lover as he fin- 
ished speaking. 

It was an honest workaday hand, sufficiently 
white, but without any pretensions to elegance, 
and scarcely to be compressed into liberal “sev- 
ens.” These defects had never been so palpable 
to Horace as when he stooped and pressed the 
massive fingers to his lips ; but he executed him- 
self bravely, and held them there quite as long 
as was becoming. Norw r as he less successful in 
the achievement of the betrothal embrace, which 
shortly afterwards ensued. Nevertheless, when 
Miss Welsted hinted that she would prefer being 
left alone, he accepted bis dismissal very patient- 
ly, on the condition of their meeting later in the 
evening ; and if you had crossed him on his way 
homeward, you would scarcely have guessed that 
you looked on the winner of the great prize in 
that season’s lottery. 

The potent seniors who on summer afternoons 
congregate in a special window of the Sanctorium 
are not prone to indulge in idle gossip. The sub- 
jects there are for the most part such as are like- 
ly to interest, on political or other grounds, men 
holding a stake in the country. The scandal and 
chit-chat of the hour they leave to the smoking 
and billiard rooms, where is found the lighter- 
minded leaven of that august society. Neverthe- 
less, on the following day, the Welsted engage- 
ment was fully discussed at this conclave ; and 
Lord Nithsdale thought the news of sufficient 
importance to warrant an inroad into his wife’s 
dressing-room before dinner. 

44 We need not have been anxious about Nina 
after all, ” ho observed ; 4 4 Mr. Kendall had .much 
more substantial objects in view, it seems, than a 
foolish flirtation ” 

The Lady Rose bit her lips, as if the intelli- 
gence only half-pleased her. 

“More substantial, certainly, in every way. 


Well, some people’s luck is quite provoking ; 1 
have no patience with it.” 

Lord Nithsdale smiled gravely. Not particu- 
larly keen-sighted in ordinary matters, he had 
begun already to interpret his wife’s thoughts 
very accurately. 

“So you had designs on the heiress for one 
of your proteges , Rosie ? I am sorry you are dis- 
appointed, but it almost serves you right. You 
should leave match-making to older and wiser 
heads. ” 

The Countess could not deny the imputation. 
She had never yet mentioned the scheme to the 
person chiefly interested therein, but she had 
certainly speculated as to Avenel's chances of 
success, if he could be induced to lay serious 
siege to the heiress. It was so pleasant to fan- 
cy Regy a millionaire, and with such a perfect 
temper he was sure to make any woman happy. 
She had laid quite a train of combinations for 
bringing them together, and here were all these 
ingenious schemes shivered as hopelessly as Al- 
naschar’s glass. 

44 Never mind what I meant,” she said rather 
impatiently. “If I am disappointed, I dare say 
I am not the only one. I suppose one ought to 
pity poor Miss Welsted : but I have no- compas- 
sion to spare for people I hardly know. I won- 
der what Nina will say to it. I have not heard 
her mention his name lately, and I fancy they 
have very seldom met. I am to take her to the 
Martindales’ ball to-night. Mamma is still nurs- 
ing her cold.” 

The season was thinning out, but the Martin- 
dales’ entertainment was always crowded. Their 
rooms were perfect for dancing, and their suppers 
something to eat, and not to dream of afterwards. 
The-drive thither from Carrington Crescent, where 
Lady Nithsdale picked up her sister, Avas a Aerv 
short one. Nevertheless, the Countess found time 
to say : 

44 Have you heard the last piece of news, Nina ? 
Miss Welsted, the great heiress, you know, is en- 
gaged at last.” 

“Engaged? Not to Regv AA*enel by any 
chance?” the other asked, in the listless Avay 
that had come over her of late. 

“No such luck,” the Countess retorted pettish- 
ly. “As papa Avould say, a rank outsider, avIio 
ought neAer to have been in the race. There, 
you AA'ould never guess. It’s your friend — not 
mine, thank goodness ! — Mr. Kendall.” 

Rose Nithsdale Avas the tenderest- hearted creat- 
ure breathing. She Avould not Avillingly have dealt 
to her bitterest enemy such a stab as she now 
dealt to her pet sister ; but she Avas utterly in 
the dark, you must remember, as to the state of 
Nina’s feelings, and had no reason to suspect that 
she touched anything more sensitive than a fool- 
ish fancy, cured long ago. 

Gwendoline Marston reared herself out of the 
corner where she leant, and sat for a few seconds 
quite upright, without speaking. Then she said 
in a sIoav, measured voice, like a child repeating 
a lesson painfully learned by rote • 

“Horace — Kendall — and this is true?” 

“Perfectly true,” Lady Nithsdale returned in- 
differently. “Hugh brought it from the iSanc- 
torium this afternoon, and they don't deal in 
canards there. A curious piece of luck, isn’t it ? 
But you needn’t look so thunderstricken.” 

A lamp flashed in just then on Nina s wide 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


fixed eyes ; and, at the same instant, there flash- 
ed across Lady Nithsdale’s mind a vague suspi- 
cion of the truth — a suspicion which, had it come 
a little sooner, would have made her bite her tongue 
through rather than speak so carelessly. 

One word in the last sentence was not so ill- 
chosen, after all. Walking along the conven- 
tional paths of society, with no Asmodean advan- 
tages, we may be reminded now and then of poor 
Duchess May, when 

Sha stood up in bitter case, 

With a pale and steadfast face ; 

Toll slowly. 

L'ke a statue thunderstrook, 

That, though shivered, seems to look 
Bight against the thunder-place. 

But, before Lady Nithsdale could put either 
pity or penitence into words, Nina sank back into 
her corner again, closing her eyes. 

“We shall see them to-night, I suppose?” she 
said quite quietly. 

And then Lady Nithsdale knew that, whatever 
sorrow might be lying at her little sister’s heart, 
there was no fear that the world would be made 
ware of it. She did not answer the half-ques- 
tion ; but her hand somehow stole into Nina’s ; 
and the girl held it fast, as one who, even with 
some such help, can scarcely master a paroxysm 
of pain. She was holding it so still, when their 
carriage stopped at the Martindales’ door. 

As she followed her sister up the staircase, she 
overheard a whisper — “Looks wonderfully hand- 
some to-night.” She knew perfectly well for 
whom the remark was meant, and smiled a sau- 
cy smile, and lifted her haughty little head like 
a thorough Marston. All know their motto — 
Poind Faillir. 

As the sisters passed through the first door 
they came upon Avenel, who was evidently wait- 
ing for them. 

“You are engaged to me for the next waltz, 
Nina, remember,” he said. 

The girl understood him quite well ; and, as 
she took his arm, looked up into his face grate- 
fully. And Lady Nithsdale did so, partly at least ; 
for she did not feel surprised, much less vexed, at 
what, under any other circumstances, she would 
have considered a breach of allegiance. 

“Are — are they here ?” Nina asked almost in- 
audibly, when they had made some way through 
the throng. 

“Yes,” he answered. And so they moved on 
slowly and silently, till they came over against a 
group in the second saloon, at which many glances 
had already been levelled. 

By virtue of seniority, Lady Mandrake was the 
chief personage therein. The aspect of the wor- 
thy dame was decidedly louring. She sat there 
upright and grim, with the air of one determined 
to carry out to the letter a certain duty without 
dissembling a distaste for it. Close to her stood 
Horace Kendall, who had scarcely yet learned to 
bear himself quite as becomes an accepted suit- 
or. He had answered several congratulations — 
for the engagement was now publicly announced 
— cleverly enough ; nevertheless, he seemed nerv- 
ous and ill at ease, and ever and anon glanced 
over his shoulder as if he expected something or 
somebody to appear. Last, though certainly not 
least, of the trio was Miss Welsted herself. Even 
a partial friend must have allowed that the heir- 
ess was not looking her best that evening. The 

F 


81 

last few days had been full of excitement, and 
excitement on sanguine complexions like hers 
tells very unbecomingly. Somehow, too, her dress 
— brilliant azure, trimmed with lace— rather seem- 
ed to enhance than to tone down this effect. 

“I can’t look at her without humming ‘The 
Red, White, and Blue,’ ” Harry Jekyl observed. 
And truly the parallel, though malicious, was not 
inapt. 

Seeing her chaperone execute a salute a I t 
Commandeur — Lady Mandrake on this especial 
evening was chary of even such stony civilities— 
Miss Welsted looked up to see who was thus fa- 
vored, and thus her eyes and Gwendoline Mars- 
ton’s met. The heiress was as self-possessed and 
self-reliant a person as you could easily find, but 
she certainly was not equal to this occasion. She 
read, thoroughly well, the meaning of the satiric 
glance that roved all over her own expansive fig- 
ure, and she knew that the comparison was net 
drawn by herself alone betwixt her uncouth con- 
tours and the other’s lithesome grace. Had she 
been on speaking terms with her rival, her posi- 
tion would have been less embarrassing. Anv 
thing, in fact, would have been better than sitting 
there helplessly, conscious of growing hotter and 
redder every instant. 

A disinterested bystander might have been pro- 
voked if he could have detected the passion work- 
ing then within those two women — each of them 
in her own way worthy of honest love — and have 
realized for whose sake such passion was stirred. 
Nevertheless, there was nothing strange in this. 
All who have read King Lear will remember how 
the peace and honor of two royal houses were 
wofully wrecked, only that the false, fair- faced 
bastard might be able to boast as he lay a-dying— 

Yet Edmuucl was beloved. 

Kendall’s attention had been called off for a 
moment ; but, turning his head as a person to 
whom he had been speaking passed on, he saw 
the disturbance on the face of his betrothed and 
— its cause. To say that he was put to confu- 
sion very faintly expresses Horace’s state of 
mind, llis cunning, or tact, if you like to call 
it so, could carry him through any small dilem- 
ma, but it was quite useless in an emergency 
like this. He was quick-witted enough to com- 
prehend the significance of Nina’s appearance, 
leaning on the arm of the man who had so lately 
put him to open shame, and to feel that there 
could no longer be peace, or even a hollow truce, 
betwixt himself and Lord Daventry’s daughter. 
Moreover, he saw that Avenel was well aware of 
his embarrassment, and relished it keenly. A 
desperate impulse, that he could not afterwards 
account for, prompted him to take a step for- 
ward, half stretching out his hand. A faint smile 
showed that the gesture was not lost on Lady 
Gwendoline Marston ; then, with a slight bend 
of her slender neck, she glided away through an 
opening in the throng. 

No cut direct could have been half so galling 
as that cold, quiet farewell. Yet farewells less 
bitter have been spoken on the decks of outward- 
bound ships by those who could never hope to 
meet again on earth ; ay, and on deathbeds, by 
those who, unless the mercy of Heaven be bound- 
less, could scarcely hope to meet again in eternity ! 

“You are a trump, Nina!” Avenel muttered j 
“you did that superbly.” 


82 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 



TIIE CUT DIRECT. 


She glanced up at him with the prettiest disdain. 

“Bid you think I was going to scream, or 
faint, or amuse all these people with a scene ? 
Merci ! Bid you not tell mo, not so long ago, 
that I was too young for stage tricks ? I think 
I am too young to wear willow either, even if 
wreaths were not out of fashion. Bidn’t thev 


look happy ? But if happiness makes one look 
so hot and red, I think I should prefer a little 
mild melancholy. I don’t wonder, quite so much 
now, that Rosie found you intractable. Ah ! you 
needn’t look unconscious ; I know what has been 
her pet scheme lately. She certainly is over- 
whelming !” 


83 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


*> It will take a wiser head than Lady Rose’s 
to make my fortune,” he answered gravely. 
‘•Though it's very nice to be schemed for, I 
should make a poor prince-consort for such a tre- 
mendous royalty.” 

Not a word was spoken afterwards that the 
whole world might not have listened to. Her 
partners — comparing notes, at Platt’s, far into the 
small hours — agreed unanimously that Gwendo- 
line Marston was in “ ripping form” that even- 
ing ; and Lady Nithsdale — watching her little 
sister, anxiously, for a while — felt sure that no 
harm had been done beyond a heart-graze, al- 
ready nearly healed. Let us assume that they 
all were right. If we can carry our own burdens 
lightly, without stooping or staggering, there is 
surely no Jaw that obliges us to lay them in the 
scale, that busybodies may test their weight to a 
grain. 

As the crowd closed in behind Avenel and his 
companion, Kendall drew his breath hard, like a 
man relieved of some choking pressure; and, 
leaning over Miss Welsted, tried to take up the 
thread of conversation where it had been broken 
off some minutes before. But that he spoke, and 
she listened, under a certain constraint was per- 
fectly evident. Lady Mandrake’s voice had .sel- 
dom sounded so pleasantly in Horace’s ears as 
when, after a whispered conversation with her 
charge, she asked him to call her carriage. 

Soon afterwards he found himself in the smok- 
ing-room of his club, listening to the comments, 
wondering or envious, on the brilliant change in 
his prospects. But all this incense — under the 
semblance of unconcern, he inhaled it greedily 
enough, Heaven knows — did not so possess Ken- 
dall’s brain as to bring placid sleep, or to baffle 
the busy mockers of Dreamland. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

When the affianced couple met on the follow- 
ing day, no allusion was made by either to the 
rencontre of the previous evening. Kendall, of 
course, was not likely to broach the subject ; and 
Mary Welsted had tact enough to see that it was 
best avoided. It was abundantly clear that no 
rivalry or interference was to be apprehended 
thenceforth from Gwendoline Marston ; and, like 
a sensible woman, she was content to profit by 
the present without raking up the past. Never- 
theless — much, it must be owned, to Horace’s 
relief — it was evident that she neither expected 
nor desired demonstrative love-making, and their 
common future was discussed in an exceedingly 
matter-of-fact way. What aver might have been 
the heiress’s faults, avarice was not among them ; 
and, if her own wishes could have been carried 
out, there would have been little trouble on the 
point of settlements. But they were only wishes 
after all. 

Nearly a year had still to elapse before she 
would cease to be a minor : whilst her wardship 
lasted she could not, without the consent of her 
guardian, dispose of the smallest portion of her 
inheritance. According to the provisions of her 
father’s will, in case of her dying unmarried be- 
fore attaining her majority, the entire property 
would pass to her nearest male relative — a York- 
shire clergyman, endowed with a small living and 
q large family. The testator hardly knew his 


cousin by sight ; but he knew him to be an hon- 
est, honorable man, such a one as might be trust- 
ed with the responsibility of founding a family. 
Though James Welsted had personally no ambi- 
tion, he was not minded to leave the distribution 
of his great wealth to chance, or to risk its being 
dribbled away through many channels ; still less 
did he fancy the idea of its furnishing a piece de 
resistance for endless legal banquets. 

This state of things was new, not to say start- 
ling, to Kendall ; and, though he listened with 
much outward complacency, the skein of his 
thoughts was somewhat ravelled. 

Under the circumstances, would it not be well 
to defer the marriage some nine months, so that 
the settlements might be drawn up in accordance 
with the heiress’s own liberal notions, rather than 
trust to such concessions as might be wrung from 
the stern probity of her guardian — a stiff cus- 
tomer to deal with, if report spoke truth ? On 
the other hand was to be taken, into considera- 
tion the danger of Mary Welsted dying in the 
interval; but, reviewing the robust proportions 
of his betrothed, Horace decided within himself 
that the risk was by no means a formidable one. 
On the whole, he thought he would prefer to wait. 
However, as unnecessary delay did not appear to 
enter into the lady’s calculations, he could not 
decently suggest such a thing, and was fain to 
accept the position with the best possible grace. 
The heiress was to have an interview with her 
guardian that same day, and after this, perhaps, 
he -would see his way somewhat clearer. 

“ What does your mother say ?” Miss Welsted 
asked, all at once. “You have written to her, 
of course ?” 

Horace almost started. This was the very 
first time, since he left the bosom of his family, 
that any one had alluded to a single member 
thereof. But his confusion only lasted a minute 
or so. 

“ She is in the seventh heaven, of course,” he 
answered. “ How could it be otherwise? I do 
wish I had brought her letter to show you, 
though you would have laughed at it, I dare say. 
My poor mother has not quite forgotten yet that 
she was bred in Provence, and her fondness for 
me amounts to infatuation.” 

“ No, I shouldn’t have laughed ; and I shouldn’t 
have considered her so infatuated as you do. I 
wonder whether she’ll like me? I am not what 
is called a ‘taking person,’ I am afraid; but I 
get on pretty well with some people.” 

Any other than Horace Kendall would have 
been moved by the earnestness of the homely 
face, but his heart turned towards her not a whit 
more tenderly. Neither then nor thereafter did 
one better impulse hallow, were it but for an in- 
stant, his sordid greed ; yet, as you may fancy, 
not the less profuse was his lip-gratitude. 

He would not listen to her if she spoke so un- 
justly of herself; but, before she had known his 
mother a day, she would have no such misgiv- 
ings. To make them acquainted was the thing 
he most wished, only he had scarcely liked to 
propose it. If she would not think herself neg- 
lected, he would run down to Swetenham to-mor- 
row, and persuade Mrs. Kendall to come up tc 
town for a week at least. She was a sad stay- 
at-home ; but now she would gladly return with 
him, he felt sure. He need not be absent twen- 
ty-four hours. 


84 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


His distaste for the unlucky girl to whom he 
had plighted his troth scarcely amounted to an- 
tipathy, yet he caught eagerly at the first excuse 
for absenting himself from her presence. Before 
they were riveted, the golden fetters began to 
gall ; and as she laid her hand upon his shoulder, 
with more of trust and fondness than she had 
hitherto shown, it w r as not compunction at the 
lie he was enacting that caused him to shrink ever 
so little from the caress. 

“That is a good, kind thought,” she said, 
“and I thank you for it. I hope you will per- 
suade your mother to return with you; but don’t 
hurry back on my account : I promise not to 
think myself neglected. It will be time enough 
for you to face this awful guardian of mine when 
you return. Perhaps his growl will be the worst 
part of lnm, after all.” 

So, on the following day, the affianced suitor 
betook himself to JSwetenham. The fashion of 
his reception there will be easy to imagine. A 
quarter of a century’s sojourn in the land of fogs 
and frosts had not sobered down A dele Deshon 
to the level of decorous British matronhood; and 
she could be passionate in her joys and sorrows 
still, on much lighter provocation than now, when 
there was a prospect of her Prince Charming be- 
ing installed in a statelier castle than she had ever 
dared to build for him in Cloudland. She was 
half tempted to bribe the church -ringers to wel- 
come her son with the full strength of their 
chimes, and w r as only restrained by the fear that 
such homage might be displeasing to its object, 
with the uncertainty of wdiose taste it was not 
safe to trifle. 

Any one who could have assisted invisibly at 
the family party must have been struck by the 
extraordinary coolness with which Kendall j>ere 
listened to the details of the rare good fortune 
that had befallen his only child. The expression 
of his cold, crafty fox- face could never have been 
mistaken for sympathy, and his small eyes twin- 
kled rather with malicious cunning than parental 
pride. Soon after dinner he took himself off on 
some pretext or other, and left the other two to 
savor their triumph. 

The evening — a pleasant one on the whole — 
did not pass without a slight difference of opinion 
betwixt the pair. This arose on a suggestion of 
Mrs. Kendall that her son should write and com- 
municate the brilliant change in his prospects to 
the squire of Vernon Mallory, who was still in 
enforced exile. 

“He has had nothing but worry of late, poor 
fellow!” Adele said with a sigh * “and I know 
he would be pleased at the new r s coming directly 
from you. This is not the time to forget what 
we ow r e him.” 

Men of Kendall’s stamp are usually prone to 
spurn the ladder by which they have mounted ; 
and, when the bridge has once carried them safely 
over, care not how soon it goes to ruin and wreck. 

“You know best wdiatyour own debts amount 
to, mother, ” he said sneeringly. ‘ 4 A place in the 
Rescript Office, and an odd hundred or two to 
start me, I think about express mine. I don’t 
see why I should trouble myself about it. The 
news will read quite as pleasantly when it comes 
from you.” 

Adele bit her lip — a full scarlet lip still — and 
the color sank in her face as she pressed her 
hand on her side. 


“Don't speak like that,” she said in a low, 
tremulous voice. “It hurts me. If you won’t 
do as much on your own account, surely you will 
not refuse to do it on mine ?” 

The other apparently did not think it worth 
while to prolong the discussion. 

“ Very well ; I’ll see about it,” he grumbled. 
And with this concession his mother w f as fain to 
be content. 

Early on the following day Dr. Kendall re- 
quired a private interview with his son. What 
he had to say — short, and very much to the 
point — possibly did more credit to his head than 
to his heart. There are things so unutterably 
base that, whether they occur in the course of 
fact or fiction, they are best left unrecorded. 
Therefore the arguments with which the doctor 
enforced his claim — not an exorbitant one, it 
must be owoed — to a share in the advantages of 
the proposed alliance shall have no place here, 
specially as their nature may easily be guessed. 

In spite of Miss Welsted’s freedom from prej- 
udice and large democratic views, it is by no 
means certain how she would have received a 
secret that Dr. Kendall might, had he chosen, 
have revealed. At any rate, Horace did not 
choose to make the experiment ; and he would 
have purchased silence at a higher price than 
was noAv demanded. That he long ago suspect- 
ed, and more than suspected, the ugly truth, is 
most probable ; but this w r as the first time it had 
been placed before him in its bare deformity; and 
he went out of his reputed father’s presence much 
in the condition of a drummed-out soldier, who, 
callous to all other ignominy, still winces a little 
whilst the smart of the branding lasts. 

No very hard words had passed between the 
two. It w r as a mere question of exchange and 
barter. The younger man was not wont to 
waste his heroics ; and the elder, if you had 
flung a crowm - piece at his head with a curse, 
would have stooped contentedly to pick up the 
coin out of the kennel. 

Nevertheless, hardly any consideration short 
of necessity would have tempted Horace to tarry 
another night under that roof. He said as much 
to his mother, indeed ; and, if her preparations 
had not been so simple, she would have made no 
demur about their hurried departure after looking 
once into his face. 

The journey back to town was not, strictly 
speaking, a blithesome one. Though Kendall 
made not the slightest allusion to the subject- 
matter of the morning’s interview, his sullen si- 
lence was significant enough, even without the 
scowl that ever and anon shot from under his 
bent brow's ; and Adele’s flushed cheeks and 
drooping eyelids showed that there was woman- 
liness enough left in her warped nature to make 
her feel ill at ease in the presence of her son, 
since she knew him to have been made aware, 
beyond the possibility of a doubt, of her ancient 
shame. 

Nothing could have been more radiant than 
the demeanor of the pair when, on the following 
morning, they had audience of Miss Welsted. 
Certainly the latter need not have disquieted 
herself as to how she would be wolcomed by her 
future mother-in-law. Perhaps a person of "more 
refined taste might have been somewhat op- 
pressed by Mrs. Kendall’s “gushing;” but the 
heiress rather liked it than otherwise. It had 


85 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


the charm of novelty ; for her lot had hitherto 
been cast amongst staid and steady people, and 
any thing that was overstrained she set down to 
Proven<;al enthusiasm. 

80 every thing went swimmingly on. The 
formidable guardian — though he evidently re- 
garded his ward's, choice with no great admira- 
tion or favor — showed himself more tractable 
than had been expected; and, before a week 
had passed, Horace congratulated himself on not 
having hinted at the possibility of delay in com- 
pleting the contract. 

Miss Welsted’s presence at Kineton for a while 
was for many reasons desirable ; so she proceeded 
thither — escorted by Mr. Carden, her guardian, 
and her quondam governess, who had for some 
time past performed such sheep-dog duty as it 
was beneath Lady Mandrake’s dignity to under- 
take. That excellent chaperon bade adieu to 
her charge with much civility and kindness; but 
she did not precisely weep upon her neck, as she 
would probably have done had the match been 
of her own making. It was with a certain re- 
luctance — she was so hampered by engagements, 
she said — that she promised positively to be pres- 
ent at the nuptials, that were to take place early 
in September. 

Although Horace could hardly be said to miss 
his betrothed, the days ensuing her departure 
dragged somewhat heavily. They were days of 
perfect liberty, for the laziest Sybarite would mot 
have murmured at occasional visits to Lincoln’s 
Inn on such pleasant business. However, he re- 
gretted, now and then, that he had resigned his 
appointment in the Rescript Office so hastily. 
He knew himself to be no favorite there, and did 
not flatter himself that the congratulations of his 
former fellows would be very sincere ; but, if he 
had got no sympathy, he would at least ha*ve 
known that he was envied — no mean satisfac- 
tion : it was a capital lounging-place too, for the 
work was nearly always nominal. He had not 
even his mother to talk to or to tease, for Mrs. 
Kendall left town the day after Miss Welsted. 

The general exodus was now in full progress, 
and a more popular man than Kendall would not 
seldom have been condemned to a solitary club- 
dinner. As he walked home after one of those 
dreary repasts, he felt inclined to quarrel with 
the conventionalities which preA'ented him just 
now from being a guest at Kineton. If the place 
were ever so dull, it would be his own, or virtually 
his own, very soon, and the sense of proprietor- 
ship would make his walks abroad there rather 
pleasant. He was tempted to invent some decent 
pretext that might excuse his running down, if 
only for a day. A little solitude will work won- 
ders, sometimes, in forcing domestic affections 
that otherwise would be slow in flowering. 

A reading-lamp was burning in his sitting- 
room when he entered it. He glanced carelessly 
at his writing-table, where his letters were usu- 
ally laid, to see if any had come by the last post. 
There were no letters, but there was — a telegram. 

The feats of the electric battery stand, clearly, 
first and foremost amongst the achievements of 
this wonder-working century: nevertheless, I 
have great doubts whether the span of human 
existence is not materially affected by the addi- 
tional strain on the nerves. Gamblers on the 
Turf or Stock Exchange, or even perfectly legit- 
imate speculators, doubtless get used to it. They 


flinch no more before the dusky-yellow envelopes 
than others do before the blue-wove packets, di- 
rected in a fair clerkly hand, that add so mate- 
rially to the merriment of each Christmastide. 
But nine ordinary people out of ten will be sensi- 
ble of a certain sinking of the heart at first sight 
of one of these messages, the- import whereof 
they cannot guess — or guess only too truly. 

'•‘Ill news travels apace” was a proverb in 
vogue long before Volta was born, and even now- 
adays, when our ships come in, our correspond- 
ents ere content as a rule to advise us thereof by 
post. It is only when they have a wreck to an- 
nounce — the wreck, perchance, of our very last 
venture — that they work the wires with a will. 

Kendall would have treated any possible dis- 
aster that could have befallen his neighbor with 
a calm philosophy, but when it was a question of 
his own misfortune his sensibilities were wonder- 
fully keen, and you would not have supposed 
that a grain of stoicism was to be found in his 
whole composition. He felt sick and faint as he 
took up the ominous missive, and his hand shook 
as he opened it. This is what he read : 

Kineton , 5.30 P.M. 

A fearful accident has happened. Come im- 
mediately. J. Carden. 

Not a word as to who was the sufferer ; but 
that was quite needless. There was but one life 
at Kineton in which he had any interest, and this 
life, he knew very well, was the one imperilled, 
if not already ended. Poring over the paper in 
a dull, mechanical way, he became at last aware, 
from the date of its delivery at the London office, 
that the message must have arrived within a few 
minutes of the time when he went out after dress- 
ing. If he had got it then he might just have 
caught the down-mail, now it’ was impossible to 
start before morning. 

He had just sense enough to realize this ; he 
realized little more, as he sat there staring with 
haggard, vacant eyes. Amongst all the feelings 
seething within him, there was not one with 
which an honest man or woman would sympa- 
thize ; yet if any of you who read these pages 
have spent one of those awful periods of enforced 
inaction, when your presence is urgently needed 
at some tragedy being enacted elsewhere, you 
may, perchance, hold even such a creature as 
this not wholly undeserving of pity. The brandy 
that he drank in the course of the night would 
have stupefied him at any other time ; now it 
only steadied his hands enough to enable them 
to pack a few necessaries that he must take with 
him ; for before his servant, who slept out of the 
house, could come in the morning, Horace hoped 
to be miles away. 

He got to the station somehow, and took the 
first train, though it was one of the slowest, and 
reached Kineton little earlier than the express 
starting two hours later. But motion ever so 
dilatory was better than sitting still. When he 
reached his destination at last he found a dog- 
cart waiting for him. 

‘ ‘ How is your mistress ?” he asked of the 
groom standing at the horse’s head. 

Kendall’s voice was so husky that the man 
had almost to guess at the words ; but, knowing 
what the first question would be, he had his an- 
swer ready. 

“Mortal bad, sir. We all hoped you'd ha' 


86 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


come by the night mail. I ’most doubt if you 
will find her alive now. You had better let me 
drive, please” — Kendall was fumbling helplessly 
with the reins — “the mare’s a bit awkward till 
she gets into your hands, and we haven’t a min- 
ute to spare.” 

The distance was not great, and the trotting 
mare did it in fair match-time, but before the}'' 
drew up at Kineton-hall door Horace had heard 
all the details of the disaster. 

Miss Welsted had gone out in her pony-car- 
riage as usual. The tiger, occupying the tiny 
back seat, was a mere child : she had no other 
attendant, for the governess who usually accom- 
panied her chanced to be unwell that afternoon. 
The ponies were young and rather hot, but she 
had driven them several times before, and they 
had never shown any symptom of vice. The 
flies had fretted them, perhaps, while they were 
standing, for they pulled more than usual, even at 
starting ; but Miss Welsted, being strong in the 
wrist and perfectly fearless — though by no means 
a scientific whip — rather liked this than other- 
wise. They were about half way down the av- 
enue that led to the lodge gates, when one of the 
Highland cattle feeding in the park rose sudden- 
ly from behind a patch of fern, and bolted across 
the road. The ponies gave a mad bound that 
started every bolt in the fore-carriage, and the 
next instant they were away. 

The solitary witness of what happened after- 
wards, besides being stunned at the time, was too 
stupefied with terror and grief to give a very clear 
account of it. 

“His mistress did not seem much frightened,” 
he said, “and she never screamed out once. But, 
as they tore round the last turn and came in sight 
of the lodge, he heard her say, quite softly, ‘God 
help us! They are shut!’ Then he stood up 
and screamed with all his might to open the 
gates; but the lodge-keeper ran out a second 
too late. 

Perhaps the runaways could not have stopped 
themselves then if they would. At any rate, they 
never slackened their pace, but crashed full front 
against the bars. The shock pitched the lad — 
a mere featherweight — sheer over the fence 
amongst the garden-shrubs. When his senses 
came back, he saw amongst the wreck of iron 
and wood — for the gates too were shattered — 
one of the ponies stone dead, and the other help- 
lessly maimed, and his mistress in the lodge-keep- 
er’s arms, lying white and still. 

Mary Welsted Avas not dead, though when the 
doctor saw her half an hour afterwards he de- 
cided it to be a desperate case of brain-concus- 
sion, and all the science that was soon summoned 
to her aid only confirmed that verdict. 

Mr. Carden met Kendall in the hall as he en- 
tered, and beckoned him into the library. The 
old man’s face was very sorrowful, and his eye- 
lids, perhaps, were heavy with something else be- 
sides a long night’s watch. His manner -was in- 
finitely more cordial now than when, a fortnight 
ago, he went through the forms of congratula- 
tion. 

“I pity you from the bottom of my heart,” 
he said. “It may be some slight comfort to 
know that you have not come too late, and that 
if you had come last night it would have availed 
nothing. She has never spoken since, or even 
opened her eyes.” 


“Is there no hope ?” Horace asked faintly. 

“Absolutely none. Indeed, we ought to hope 
that the release will come speedily. You will 
know why when you have seen her. Will you 
come at once ?” 

They went up stairs together. On the first 
landing Kendall stood still, listening and trem- 
bling. 

Down the corridor, from a room at the farther 
end, there came a sound such as few can hear 
for the first time unawed — a sound which, once 
heard, is not easily forgotten — a sound more ter- 
rible in its monotony than any sharp, sudden 
cry — a sound which, though it savors of both, is 
neither gasp nor groan — a sound that forces us, 
in our own despite, to believe that unconscious- 
ness is not insensibility — a sound, perhaps more 
significant than any other, of the prolonged ago- 
ny of a parting soul. 

“ It has gone on so ever since she was brought 
in,” Mr. Carden said, answering the other’s look 
of frightened inquiry. “They have tried tre- 
panning without the slightest effect. I don’t 
wonder that you are overcome. It has tried us 
alUfearfully. ” 

Kendall paused a minute or two, and then 
spoke in a weak, hesitating voice : 

“ If there is no chance of her knowing me, do 
you think I had better — ” 

The elder man’s face changed from compas- 
sion to contempt. 

“Do I think you had better go in at once?” 
he said very coldly. “Unquestionably I think 
so. You will act as you think fit, of course. 
My duty was to bring you here, and I have done 
it.” 

Horace could not, for very shame, hang back. 

“You — quite misunderstand me,” he stam- 
mered out ; and so passed on, and in through 
the door standing ajar. 

The room was darkened ; but, as Kendall en- 
tered, one of the attendants drew a curtain part- 
ly aside, so that a thin column of light streamed 
in on the deathbed. There was nothing there 
very shocking to the eye. The fatal blow had 
left little outward trace ; and, beside that terri- 
ble moaning, she gave no signs of life ; this — the 
doctor, standing by the bedside, whispered — was 
growing fainter and fainter. 

Putting great force upon himself, Horace came 
near and pressed his lips on the pale hands — 
motionless save for a slight twitching of the fin- 
gers. Even at such a moment he could spare 
no tenderer caress for the woman who would 
have given him all. Then he sat down apart, 
with his face buried in his hands. 

All those present, with the exception of Mr. 
Carden, gave him credit for natural emotion, and 
pitied him accordingly. If they could have pe- 
rused his thoughts, perhaps they would not have 
been so liberal of sympathy. He was utterly 
crushed by the suddenness and completeness of 
the blow ; but his regrets were almost purely 
selfish. For the poor girl who lay a-dying lie 
felt much the same vague, careless compassion 
as a speculator would give to the laborers drown- 
ed by the flooding of his favorite mine. 

Minutes, under such circumstances, are not 
counted by the clock. Though the silence, 
broken only by brief whispers, seemed to Horace 
endless, it had not perhaps lasted a quarter of an 
hour when the moaning grew perceptibly fainter, 


87 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


and was succeeded by heavy, labored breathing ; 
and then the doctor said — speaking for the first 
time above his breath — 


“ She is going fast.” 

The agony, if such it had been, had spent it- 
self; but in the last moments of life a faint 



gleam of consciousness seemed to cross the poor 
dizzy brain ; for her eyes were half unclosed, 
though it was evident that she recognised no 
one, and her right hand groped feebly on the 
coverlid, as it searched for some other hand. 


Mr. Carden glanced over his shoulder at Ken- 
dall, who had drawn near with the rest ; then, 
seeing that Horace stood helpless and irresolute, 
he bent down and took tiie quivering fingers into 
his own. 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


88 

And so, holding an honest man’s hand after 
all, Mary Welsted passed away, we may hope, 
into some better abiding-place than the Fool’s 
Paradise whereunto she had aspired. 

Kendall’s first impulse, when all was over, was 
to escape as speedily as possible from the scene 
of the disaster. It was bitterly true that he had 
no business at Kineton now; neither, truth to 
speak, did Mr. Carden seem specially anxious to 
detain him. It was settled, as a matter of 
course, that Horace should be present at the fu- 
neral ; and in the course of the same afternoon 
he took his departure. 

Certain half-hours cut a deeper notch in a 
man’s life than the average of years will leave. 
Horace’s drive back to the station was one of 
such. The soft summer breeze sweeping through 
the tall elms of the avenue seemed to murmur 
mockery. Thererwas insolence in the aspect 
of the ample corn-lands, red-ripe for the sickle, 
and in the greenery of the broad meadows dot- 
ted thickly with fat kine. On all this, one day 
— and no distant day either — he was to have 
looked as lord and master. How did he look on 
them now ? His face was so far a tell-tale that 
even the stolid Loamshire man, sitting by his 
side, partly guessed at the color of his musings, 
and was rather inclined to rejoice than to re- 
pine when the other dismissed him, at their jour- 
ney’s end, without any offer of gratuity. 

“ He looked a precious sight more sulky than 
sorry, ” the groom remarked afterwards. ‘ ‘ He’s 
a bitter bad devil, I reckon. If the poor missus 
had lived, she’d ha’ repented of her bargain pret- 
ty often. ” 

In very truth, it was long before Horace Ken- 
dall emerged from that savage desperation which 
has tempted, or well-nigh tempted, certain pro- 
fessing Christians to “curse God, and die.” 
However, there is method even in the madness 
of some folk. To the blasphemy our friend was 
fully equal ; but as for the death — 

In spite of such losses and reverses, it is prob- 
able that this delicate plant will flourish when 
harder and nobler trees are dust. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The glory of autumn was waning in the west- 
ern highlands. , The rich contrasts of color — for 
Wildernesse, like a mere mortal, seeks ever by 
gorgeous apparel to dissemble her decline — were 
giving place rapidly to sober russets and grays. 
The wind swept keenly down the gullies with an 
ominous whistle, and had had a skirmish or two 
already with the pines in prelude to their winter 
battle. The loch was seldom calm enough now 
to mirror birch or oak, and such shadows were 
thinner where they fell. The grouse - cocks 
crowed defiantly on the moorland ; for, standing 
erect, each on his own tussock, all ear and eye, 
they might set at. naught the wiles of the fowler. 
A few chances in sheltered hollows wljiere there 
was still feeding-ground, or a long shot in round- 
ing the shoulder of a hill, were about all one 
could expect ; and it was a little too early for 
good cover-shooting as yet. At such a season, a 
man’s thoughts, unless he be very keen on sport, 
are apt to follow in the track of the swallow. 

Now Mark Ramsay was by no means an in- 


veterate gunner ; and, when his destructive du- 
ties had been duly performed, one would have 
thought that his inclinations would have tended 
southwards ; but he seemed perfectly content to 
abide at Kenlis. Once, when his wife ventured 
to question him as to the probable time of their 
removing, he contrived to evade a direct reply ; 
and, though there was no impatience in his man- 
ner, it was evident that he did not choose to be 
pressed on the subject. 

The castle party— speaking of those actually 
resident there— was narrowed down to three. 
Alsager and Vane had gone their several ways 
some time ago, and a week later Mr, Brance- 
peth, too, had left on a tour of lowland and 
North-country visits that would bring him home 
by leisurely stages. Lady Laura was to have 
borne her husband company throughout ; but 
though, when her friend spoke of departure, 
Blanche made no objection in words, the piteous 
pleading in her eyes was quite too much for La 
Reine Gaillarde, who, without more ado, cast 
her engagements to the winds, utterly setting at 
naught the resentment of her ill-used acquaint- 
ance, and making very light of her lord’s grum- 
bling. 

“ Don’t pretend to be helpless,” she said, “but 
go off and enjoy yourself like a man — or rather 
like a single man. You don’t often get such a 
chance, you know. If you get into any mischief 
— provided it isn’t very bad mischief— I’ll try to 
forgive you. ” 

Perhaps Mr. Brancepeth was rather flattered 
at being still considered capable of a peccadillo, 
or the very idea was too much for his gravity. 
At any rate — solutis risu tabulis — it was amicably 
settled that Lady Laura should remain at Kenlis 
till the Ramsays could escort her south. 

La Reine was by no means an exemplary ma- 
tron. I do not mean to imply that her sins, 
either of omission or commission, would have 
brought her under the ban of any criminal code ; 
but with her reckless words and actions she very 
often proved a rock of offence to her weaker sis- 
ters. As for the strong-minded ones — the stones 
they had cast at her already would have made a 
goodly cairn. Nevertheless, it is probable that 
certain famous fanatics would have haggled a 
while with their consciences before completing 
such a self-sacrifice as she now decided on un- 
hesitatingly. She knew perfectly well that, at 
most of the halting-places above mentioned, there 
would be ample provision of the amusements in 
which her soul delighted. She was sure to fore- 
gather there with more than one of her special 
favorites ; indeed, divers pleasant plans had been 
laid already with a view to such meetings : hard- 
est trial of all, she knew that certain of her ri- 
vals, with the advantage of a start and clear 
course, would make play, and want some catch- 
ing whenever she should take up the running 
again. Yet she accepted quite readily the pros- 
pect of comparative solitude, without a chance of 
the mildest flirtation or of a break to the monot- 
ony of the days following and resembling each 
other, beyond an occasional scamper on the back 
of a hill-pony, or a sail on the loch when the wind 
was not too wild. 

Laura took no credit to herself for all this. To 
stand by a friend in need seemed to her the sim- 
plest thing in nature, and not in any wise to be 
regarded as a penance, or even as an exception- 


89 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


al duty. Yet it seems to me that charities, less 
worthy of record, have been celebrated in pom- 
pous phrase on lettered tombstones. 

Certainly, few could have looked in Blanche 
Ramsay’s face without feeling that her need of 
support, if not of succor, was very sore. The 
melancholy which had assailed her by fits and 
starts in the early days of her residence at Kenlis 
had fairly mastered her now, and seldom loosened 
its grasp, strive or struggle as she would. But 
there was a cause for it now — a cause that, ere 
this, has made braver and brighter birds than 
this little Oriole sit moping with dull eyes and 
plumage unpreened, whilst their mate was soar- 
ing through all other tracks of air rather than 
the one which led nestwards. 

To speak plainly — though she had not as yet 
made a confidante of even Laura Brancepeth, 
Blanche had long ago confessed to herself that 
she was jealous in real earnest. The cause of 
that jealousy you will easily guess. 

I have said that the actual residents of the 
castle numbered only three ; but, whether the Ir- 
vings could be considered as non-residents, might 
fairly have been questioned. Assuredly, much 
more of their time was spent at Kenlis than in 
their own home ; and during the brief intervals 
of their absence, it might have been remarked 
that some business generally called away Ramsay 
on such distant expeditions as engrossed all the 
time between breakfast and dinner. Once, and 
once only, he had avowedly gone over to Drum- 
our. He went there alone, for a single night, to 
help to fill some game-boxes that Captain Irving 
wanted to send off south ; but it is to be pre- 
sumed that the grouse were wilder than usual, 
for it was the third day before he returned to 
Kenlis. 

Even in his hot youth, Mark had always, to a 
certain extent, acted caute, si non caste ; and he 
was still less likely to parade his indiscretions 
now. Whilst conversing with Alice Irving, his 
voice rarely sunk below its ordinary tone ; and 
very rarely were the glances of either more ex- 
pressive than familiar acquaintance would war- 
rant. lie never pretended to engross her atten- 
tion, or seemed jealous at seeing it bestowed on 
another. Nevertheless, a mere stranger, after 
bepig an hour in their company, would probably 
have concluded that a singularly good under- 
standing existed betwixt the two. There is a 
subtle mesmerism in these affinities that, withofit 
being at all contagious, makes others besides 
those directly influenced by them conscious of 
their existence. 

Laura Brancepeth — neither a stranger nor dis- 
interested — fully appreciated the state of things, 
and chafed under it hourly ; but, with all her im- 
pulsiveness, she was far too well versed in the 
world’s ways to interfere by word or gesture, or 
to broach the subject till Blanche herself should 
think fit to do so. Though she had rather a 
knack at travestying proverbs, she had got that 
one about a tree and its bark pretty straight ; 
and on more than one similar occasion had found 
the benefit of acting thereupon. But, if it was 
occasionally pain and grief to the friend to keep 
silence, how, think you, did it fare with the wife ? 

A dangerously deep game was being played 
up yonder, and the players did not start on level 
terms. Comparing great things with small, any 
one who has often looked on at high whist must 


have seen a parallel case scores of times. Do 
we not know him — the light-minded gamester, 
utterly incorrigible in the error of his ways, and 
proof against reproach or sarcasm — who, having 
trusted once too often to his luck, accepts the po- 
sition quite hilariously, treating his own blunders 
as if they were part and parcel of an elaborate 
joke ? And we, the bystanders, laugh with, quite 
as much as at, him, and think “what a good loser 
he is !” contrasting his bearing very favorably with 
that of his partner, who, it is evident, does not 
relish the jest quite so keenly ; for every point 
lost to themselves or gained by their adversaries 
is scored on that other face — anxious enough 
when the play began. Now it does not follow 
of necessity that difference of temperament has 
any thing to do with this difference of demeanor. 
It may well be that, as they walk homewards to- 
night, one man will confess to himself — if he re- 
flects at all — that the purchase of that peacocky 
park-hack must be deferred, or that Coralie must 
be balked of her latest whim in jewelry ; whilst 
the other will be racking his brain, overstrained 
already, with reckoning up the resources where- 
with he may once again tempt Eortune. And, 
if he be not quite case-hardened against remorse, 
he may perhaps remember having heard long ago 
that ‘ ‘ it is not meet to take the children’s bread 
and cast it to dogs.” 

It was not of her own free-will that Blanche 
Ramsay was playing so perilously. Her position 
had been simply forced upon her; but it was 
none the less true that her very last stake was 
now involved. Considering all things, her self- 
possession and self-control were something won- 
derful. If the tie binding her to Mark grew frail- 
er daily, no fault of hers brought it to breaking- 
strain. Peevish, or plaintive, or sullen she never 
was ; and, if her face sometimes looked a little 
sad or weary, a gentle word from him would al- 
ways bring the light back again, though it lasted 
not long. So much even he was fain to confess 
— thinking over these things in the after-time. 

As for Mark, he was simply following up his 
fancy, as he had done a score of times before, ut- 
terly regardless of the distinctions between right 
and wrong, faith and falsehood, cruelty and com- 
passion. It was his fancy so far — no more. In 
such a nature as his, love, as honest men define 
it, had no more chance of ripening than the gold- 
en grain scattered amongst desert stones. He 
had not begun to dislike Blanche as yet, and 
found her sufficiently companionable still, when he 
had time to spare ; but such hours as were spent 
in the shadow of Fontainebleau rocks would nev- 
er come again ; and the soft white hand, that he 
was then so fond of toying with, was powerless 
now to keep him from straying. 

What Alice Irving had at stake would be hard 
to determine. It is possible indeed that she had 
not yet defined it to herself. She was no novice 
at the game, that was clear ; and, being conscious 
of the strength of her hand, was content to play 
it warily without forcing the chances. With her 
demeanor towards Blanche, La Heine herself 
could not quarrel. Not a single act, or word, or 
look could fairly be called presumptuous. She 
deferred in all things to her hostess, beyond what 
may reasonably be expected from the meekest of 
guests ; and if any point, howsoever trivial, was 
referred to her decision, she invariably withheld 
it till she was certain of not running counter to 


DO 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


the slightest wish of Mrs. Ramsay. And the 
other paid her back in kind. No stranger, com- 
ing to Ivenlis, would have guessed that Alice Ir- 
ving’s presence was less welcome to its chatelaine 
than it was the first time she set foot therein. 

So things went on with admirable, surface- 
smoothness ; but, go as smoothly as they would, 
the time came when Mark could no longer delay 
a move southwards, especially as Laura Brance- 
peth was waiting for his escort. He said as 
much to Captain Irving one night, as they were 
finishing their partie. 

The other shrugged his shoulders rather rue- 
fully. 

‘ ‘ I’ve been expecting this, any time these three 
weeks. Y ou’re thoroughly right to go. I won- 
der at any one staying here, after the fall of the 
first leaves, who isn’t shackled down as I am. I 
should have liked above all things to spend this 
winter in town with Alice — leaving her at Ivenlis 
alone is out of the question, of course — but I 
simply can’t afford it. The fat kine have never 
much favored our pastures ; and this is one of 
our famine-years. I'd have strained a point or 
two, for her sake, if it had been possible. She’ll 
find the winter very long, I’m afraid.” 

Now, this speech, coming from many people, 
would have meant just this : “I am very poor, 
and you are very wealthy. If you happen to 
have two or three hundreds lying idle at your 
banker’s, the proffer of a six months’ loan would 
come at this juncture with peculiar grace , and 
so neither our party, nor our piquet, need be 
broken up.” 

But, like the Castilian beggar who will never 
overstep a certain line in degradation, Alexander 
Irving, gambler and profligate to the back-bone, 
had his points of honor. On the present occa- 
sion he meant what he said, neither more nor 
less ; and Ramsay, who had exceptional luck in 
steering clear, of gaucheries , knew his man too 
well to think of suggesting any such aid. He 
only said : 

“I wish w r ith all my heart you could have man- 
aged it ; it would have been so pleasant for all 
of us. Couldn’t you venture on a short visit ? 
Perhaps before long we could offer you quarters. 
At the present moment we’re roofless in London, 
you know.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Irving answered gravely. 
“If I’ve learned nothing else in all these years, 
I’ve learned not to trust myself. It wouldn’t be 
a short visit if I once got into the old haunts, 
and among the old faces ; and, with my habits, I 
would not accept quarters even under your roof. 
Thanks for the notion all the same. If things 
should turn out better than I expect, w r e may 
possibly meet again before long ; if otherwise, I 
dare say Alice and I will survive till you come 
North again.” 

Then the subject dropped. 

A word oi’ two about that same piquet-playing 
will make matters clearer. Mark had adhered 
fairly enough to the spirit of his promise to Alice 
to abstain from deep gambling, and the nominal 
stakes remained much the same as at the begin- 
ning ; but a fiver on the rubber of three games 
had become by no means exceptional of late ; 
and they played, as often as not, according to the 
Russian rules, where every point scores. One 
way or another, Irving’s winning balance had 
mounted to no inconsiderable sum : it might be 


reckoned in hundreds now. The luck had been 
tolerably equal ; but Mark was probably right in 
giving his opponent credit from the first for su- 
perior skill, and in predicting that it must tell in 
the long-run. The superiority was not disagree- 
ably manifest ; and it was still so much a ques- 
tion of cards, that a shade of odds would have 
tempted an ordinary backer to give choice. The 
subject of profit or loss had never been touched 
on betwixt them till the very last night. It was 
much later than usual when they sat down, and 
their time was limited ; for, though neither af- 
fected early hours, it was their rule never to 
break far into the morning. 

“Have you any idea how we stand?” Mark 
asked as he took up his cards. “You keep a 
score, I believe ?” 

“ Yes,” Irving answered ; “ I have done so for 
many years. If my banking-book had been as 
regularly kept as my play-account, it w r ould have 
been better for me and mine. I can tell you 
now, if you'll wait a minute. — I'm just tw r o hun- 
dred and eighty to the good,” he went on, after 
adding up a page of his carnet, “ I didn’t think 
it had been quite so much.” 

“I thought it w r as more,” the other said care- 
lessly. “If that’s the case, I have seldom had 
so much amusement for my money — and instruc- 
tion too, for the matter of that. I flatter myself 
I have improved several points since our first trial 
of strength.” 

“You don’t flatter yourself,’ 1 Irving said. 
“There can’t be a doubt about your playing bet- 
ter than you did at first ; and you would play 
better still — you don’t mind my telling you — if 
you were not quite so quick over your discard. I 
can afford to give you that hint now, you see.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Mark retorted. 
“You’ve hit the blot — that’s certain; and I’m 
obliged to you for the hint. I’d rather it had 
come an hour later, though. Can 3-011 guess 
why ? Well : I was going to propose to }-ou one 
rubber of three — a I'Anglaise — absolutely the 
last for this bout : fifty on the game, and a hun- 
dred on la belle. There’s too much the double 
or quits about it, isn’t there ? I don’t the least 
expect 3’ou to accept.” 

The same eagerness came over Irving’s face, 
and the same gleam into his eyes, as was re- 
marked there when piquet was first mentioned 
at Ivenlis. He had none of the small meannesses 
of the third-rate gambler ; and, when he erred, it 
was never on the side of timidity. His principle 
was invariably to pousser sa masse — only, unluck- 
ily for him, the mass w r as as often his own as the 
banker’s money. 

“And why not accept?” he said in his softest 
voice. “It is no great plunge for me. At the 
very worst, I shall rise a better winner than per- 
haps I have any right to expect ; and if I win, in 
spite of the famine-year, there'll be a little corn 
in Egypt.” 

“We’ll have fresh cards, then,” Mark ob- 
served ; and with no more said on either side, 
the heavy rubber began. 

Irving had it all his own way at first, and 
scored a game without difficulty ; but the second 
was more evenly contested. The luck seemed to 
have turned, for Mark scored ninety against his 
adversary's fifty-five, the latter being eldest hand. 
A glance at his cards told Mark that there was a 
heavy point, and in all probability at least one 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


long sequence, against him. Indeed, it might he 
the taking in of one card only would save the 
game ; but that one would win it — the fourth 
queen. He held an ace and king of different 
suits, so the quatorze must needs be good. It 
seemed as though Irving’s hint had not been 
lost : he pondered long enough over the discard, 
at all events. Then — laughing to himself a little 
contemptuously, as men laugh at some trite jest 
or old-fashioned conceit — he put out the queen 
of hearts. 

The topmost card on his pciquet was her sister 
of diamonds. 

On Irving’s placid face there was, it must be 
owned, a palpable anxiety as he began to declare. 
His hand was decidedly strong : six cards, a 
quint to a knave, and a tierce-major, made him 
twenty-four. Then he announced three aces, 
lie glanced sharply at his adversary, evidently 
not expecting them to pass unchallenged ; but 
Mark only nodded ; and now there was nothing 
to stop the pique, which made the eldest hand 
game and rubber at once. 

“That was a near thing,” the conqueror re- 
marked, with the slightest, the very slightest, 
tremor in his voice. “The quatorze of queens 
was against me throughout. Is it possible that 
you didn’t go for it?” 

“ Quite possible,” Mark answered ; “ though I 
ought to have done so, beyond a doubt, for it was 
my best chance. If one coadd only guess what 
one was going to take in — I don't know that it 
would improve the game, though ; its pretty 
enough as it stands.” 

Whilst he was speaking, he had taken up his 
discard and mixed it into his hand ; shuffling the 
cards to and fro mechanically, like one whose 
thoughts are busy elsewhere. Then he rose, and 
unlocking an escritoire, took some notes out of 
it, which he laid upon the card-table. The other 
let them lie there. 

“You don’t care for your revenge, then?” he 
said. 

‘ ‘ I have no right to ask it, for that was to be 
absolutely the last rubber ; and if I had, I should 
waive it : I should only be following up a bad 
veine. Those unlucky queens ought to be a 
warning. ” 

With something like a sigh of relief, Irving 
folded up the notes tenderly, and placed them in 
his pocket-book. 

“I think we shall not winter at Drumour, 
after all,” he remarked, after a minute’s silence. 
“ To-night has just turned the scale. We shall 
be boarded and lodged at your expense, after all, 
Alice and I.” 

Mark’s start of surprise was perfect. 

“You don’t mean that? I didn’t grudge my 
losing it before ; but, now, I think I seldom or 
never won to such good purpose. There’s one 
thing I’m going to ask you. Will you tell Miss 
Irving nothing of to-night’s doings, and not let 
her guess how her winter in town was brought 
about ? It would be a pity to spoil her pleasure, 
you know ; and that it will be pleasure, there’s 
little doubt. I don’t mind confessing to you that, 
the first time she ever stayed here, certain confi- 
dences passed between us on the subject of high 
play, and that I received a certain warning.” 

Captain Irving’s smile was full of indulgent 
superiority — such as might become a great phi- 
losopher, whose abstruse pursuits are scarcely 


91 

appreciated as they deserve by his kith and 
kin. 

“ Poor Alice!” he said. “Yes; she does tor- 
ment herself sometimes about these matters — as 
if self-tormenting ever helped one’s self or others. 
You’re quite right, though. There are secrets — 
quite harmless, of course — of which womankind, 
ever so trusty or tractable, is not worthy, and 
this is one of ’em. So about this last rubber — 
silence a la mort /” 

After a little more converse of no moment, the 
two parted for the night on the best possible 
terms. But Irving knew only half the secret 
after all. He had all the worst faults of an in- 
veterate gambler ; he would have won a pauper’s 
last shilling with as little scruple or pity as 
though it belonged to a millionaire; and lie 
would push the advantage of skill to the very 
verge of honor. Nevertheless — let us give the 
devil his due — if he could have overlooked his 
opponent’s play during that last hand, he would 
have cast down those notes that he folded so 
complacently, even as Judas — a thought too late 
— cast down the blood-money. Ay — more than 
this. If he could have guesed at the motive 
prompting that curious discard, it would have 
been no fault of his if Mark Ramsay had not had 
an early opportunity of proving whether Vere 
Alsager was right or wrong in crediting those 
delicate Avhite fingers with some skill in the use 
of hair-triggers. 

The Irvings departed after luncheon on the 
morrow ; for, on the following day, Kcnlis Castle 
was to be left till next summer to the care of two 
or three Scotch servants, who, for a sufficient 
“ con-si-de-ra-tion, ” were not afraid to risk an 
occasional encounter with the Brown Lady. But, 
in the course of the morning, Alice Irving found 
herself in a certain nook of the south terrace, 
where — by the merest chance in the world — 
Ramsay was smoking a contemplative cigar. 
She was radiant with happiness, for she had just 
heard from her father of the change in their win- 
ter quarters. 

‘ ‘ I’m sure it’s all owing to you. Don’t deny it. ” 

And her eyes said, better than the scarlet lips 
could have done, “I thank you.” 

“I never deny pleasant imputations,” Mark 
said with a laugh. “You may give me all the 
credit you can possibly afford. I deserve a good 
deal : it was so thoroughly disinterested of me, to 
try to persuade Captain Irving that neither of 
you were quite fitted for an Arctic winter ! Is 
it treason to mention Drumour and winter in a 
breath? Never mind: it can’t be helped. The 
die is cast now, and you must make the best of 
it.” 

“ The best of it !” 

She spoke the words almost in a whisper; but, 
as she spoke, she glanced up once in her com- 
panion’s face. If Vere Alsager had been near 
enough to look under the long, sweeping lashes, 
he would have been less likely than ever to alter 
his opinion as to the “quiet devilry” of the great 
gray eyes. 

<s 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

We have almost forgotten George Anstruther. 
Out of such clay it is difficult assuredly to mould 


92 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


an interesting personage, either in real life or 
romance : nevertheless, as he played rather an 
important part in this story, it will be better to 
go back to him for a while. 

The outward perturbation in which you saw 
him last — when he made haste to escape out of 
the sound of Blanche Ramsay’s marriage-bells — 
passed away within the hour ; but the methodical 
routine of his days was not taken up so easily 
again. It is the same with all machines — alive 
or dead — working in a deep groove. Hard as it 
may be to throw them out of gear, when this is 
once done effectually, it is harder yet to set them 
back on the track. For the first time in all his 
life, Anstruther knew what restlessness meant. 
Certain tormenting phantoms haunted him — in 
his laboratory, where he now worked only by fits 
and starts — in his hours of exercise, ride as 
sharply as he would— and, most of all, when he 
lay down and strove to force himself into sleep ; 
and sleep, when it came, was too full of dreams 
to refresh or restore. Even at the whist-table 
his thoughts would go wandering far beyond the 
outer walls of the Orion — sometimes beyond the 
sea. 

The jar of his moral organization told on him 
physically too. The fine regular appetite, that 
was the envy of all his Indian comrades, began to 
fail ; and, more than once, an artistic dish sent 
back untasted gave the chef of the Planet occa- 
sion to exclaim against insular ingratitude. 
Divers of his acquaintance noticed the change, 
and decided that it was “a case of liver;” and 
that George Anstruther, after all, had not fared 
much better than other consumers of curry and 
cayenne. He himself at last inclined to this 
view of the question ; and, after considerable 
reluctance and delay, consented to a medical in- 
spection. 

The famous physician he consulted was a man 
of the world as well as a man of science — perhaps 
not a few of his cures might have been attributed 
to a habit of considering and prescribing for oth- 
er than mere bodily symptoms of disease. In the 
present instance he allowed that the liver was 
partly at fault ; but it was not only on this ac- 
count that he suggested change of scene. A 
month in Switzerland, and another at Wiesba- 
den, with one or two simple remedies, were all 
he thought it necessary to prescribe. 

Anstruther took both the advice and the physic 
patiently, and went through the course of travel 
and the course of waters with exemplary punct- 
uality — feeling, all the while, tolerably sure that 
neither Avould do him any material good. In the 
first fortnight of his sojourn at Wiesbaden there 
certainly was an improvement; and three or four 
Orionites, who had come thither on a like sani- 
tary mission, found him quite as ready as them- 
selves to make up a rubber at club-points — which 
those decent bodies much preferred to the mer- 
etricious trente et quarante — and much readier 
to take exercise either on foot or horseback. 
But, all at once, he seemed to fall back again 
beyond the point from which improvement had 
begun. There was no rational way of account- 
ing for this, unless a packet of letters forwarded 
from England had any thing to do with it. As 
for the intelligence they contained, the whole 
world might have looked over his shoulder as he 
opened them and been none the wiser, though 
they included a brief note from Blanche Ram- 


say, asking Mr. Anstruther to spare them a fort- 
night at Kenlis, or longer if he could so contrive 
it. 

Do you remember his behavior some months 
before when, walking in his garden, he first read 
that handwriting? How carefully he opened the 
dainty envelope ? How he lingered over the pe- 
rusal ? How long he mused afterward- — frown- 
ing the while ? Much after the same faskion he 
bore himself now, only that his feverish fingers 
did not entreat the note quite so delicately. They 
rather crushed than toyed with it ; and those few 
lines took thrice as long as the others in reading; 
his frown, too, as he sat a-musing, was heavier 
tenfold. 

Nothing of all this was apparent in the tone of 
his answer. His regret at being now forced to 
decline, and hope of being more fortunate here- 
after, were perfectly worded. If a fault could 
have been found, it would have been that the 
courtesy was a little too formal and cold. But, 
from that day, there w r as a notable change in 
Anstruther for the worse. Notable it must have 
been ; for each and every one of the Orionist 
clique was too much engaged in watching the 
state of his own health to look very keenly after 
his neighbor’s ; yet they all observed and com- 
mented on it. 

When the appointed time was spent, An- 
struther drifted listlessly back with the tide- 
setting homeward now. He took Paris on his 
way, purposing to spend a week there; but by 
the third evening he was weary even to death of 
the noisy, tourist-ridden city, and came straight 
to town by the night-mail. 

The autumnal attractions of London to most 
people are not powerful; but Anstruther was in- 
dependent of society — or, at least, of all but a 
very minute portion thereof — so far as his amuse- 
ments went. He was really glad to find himself 
within arm’s-length of his books and his crubibles 
again ; and a faithful few — loving a square yard 
of green cloth better than the widest prospect of 
emerald fields — mustered still in the card-room 
of the Orion. 

Gradually he began to slide back into the old 
ways ; before he had been home a full month he 
had found quiet again, if not perfect peace, and 
for a while the current of his life flowed on much 
as heretofore. If the tormenting phantoms had 
not utterly vanished, they kept discreetly in the 
background for the present ; but in most of these 
cases, once haunted is always haunted : he knew 
very well that they were lurking somewhere in 
the dark, and would appear once more at their 
own time and season. 

One. murky afternoon — the November fogs 
came before their time that autumn — Anstruther 
went down to his club at the usual hour, and 
stopped on the steps to exchange salutations with 
one of his familiars passing out: “familiar” is 
the proper term ; for no one, since Walter Ellers- 
lie’s death, had the right to call Anstruther 
“ friend.” This man — Thorndyke by name — was 
amongst his closest intimates. Both were old 
bachelors, leading a methodical sort of life, and 
respect for each other’s skill, added to certain 
gastronomic sympathies, had bred a kind of lik- 
ing betwixt them. Anstruther was rather dis- 
appointed at seeing the other’s face turned out- 
wards : Mr. Thorndyke’s place at the whist-table 
could not easily be filled. 


93 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


“You’re off early,” lie said ; “ some business, 

I suppose ?” 

“You are about right,” Thorndyke retorted, 
turning up his furred collar with a shiver. “I 
haven’t a hundred steps to walk ; but no man 
would go that far for his own pleasure through 
this infernal fog. There’s something worth look- 
ing at up stairs, too — though it’s more in your line 
than mine ; for I don’t appreciate piquet. There’s 
a fresh hand turned up this afternoon — fresh to 
most of us at least, though he’s a very old mem- 
ber. Did you ever hear of a Captain Irving — 
no? Well, he has just sat down to play nine 
games with Blanchmayne, with fifty on the rub- 
ber. They are ancient antagonists, it seems. I 
fancy the Viscount must have got a rare dressing 
once or twice, or he wouldn’t be so civil. ” ‘ 

This famous card-room was not an out-of-the- 
way garret, or a noisy ground-room — such as may 
be seen in other clubs, where whist is subordinate 
to conviviality — but a lofty and spacious presence- 
chamber, w r herein brooded always a solemn still- 
ness, if not a silence that might be felt. Thick 
sun-blinds and ample curtains repelled the garish 
eye of day, and after dusk-fall the sad mellow 
light of shaded waxen tapers prevailed. The wa- 
gering, though never desperate, was often deep ; 
but bets were offered and accepted in a quiet mer- 
cantile fashion. Winners betrayed no noisy ex- 
ultation, and losers cursed not their ill-luck — 
aloud. Light-minded strangers entering there 
jocund with good cheer — the cellar of the Orion 
was proverbial — had scarcely passed through 
those august portals before the religio loci con- 
strained them to tread softly and speak under 
their breath ; and they issued forth, as a rule, in 
a frame of mind befitting those who have so- 
journed for a space within the Trophonian Cav- 
ern. 

On the present occasion a couple of rubbers 
were going on, neither of which had any special 
attraction for Anstruther ; and he walked straight 
to the corner where a knot of spectators were 
gathered round the piquet-table. Of the two 
players, one you are well acquainted with ; the 
other was an oddity in his way — a most disagree- 
able way, it must be owned. 

There was not a shadow of reason or excuse, 
so far as any one knew, for Lord Blanchmayne’s 
misanthropy. His constitution w r as as tough as 
whalebone ; his fortune far beyond his needs ; 
and he was hampered by no kind of family du- 
ties or cares. Yet he had never been knoAvn to 
waste kindly or courteous word on man, woman, 
or child. He was a solitary — partly by choice, 
partly of necessity : for his own order, when the 
fact of Lord Blanchmayne’s confirmed celibacy 
was once established, cared not to court his so- 
ciety ; and when, to suit his own purpose, he 
mingled with his inferiors, he never dissembled 
contempt for his company. He was an adept at 
all games of chance and skill, and a shrewd, 
though not an energetic or eloquent politician. 
But he would have been more successful had he 
had a better opinion of the world in general ; and 
some of his subtlest combinations went awry, 
simply because he would not give his partners 
credit for common honesty. Parcere devictis was 
a maxim that even as a schoolboy he had learned 
to despise ; but he was a good loser — the stake 
was of no sort of consequence to him ; and instead 
of bearing malice to any man who fairly got the 


best of him, he rather respected such a one, and 
treated him accordingly. His sallow, cross-grain- 
ed face does not lower a whit more than usual 
now, though the second game has just been scored 
against him ; and with a kind of sullen admira- 
tion he growls out : 

“ You haven't grown rusty in all these years 
— plenty of practice, I suppose ? I wish I could 
say as much for myself ; but bad play’s catching, 
and I don’t get many chances of improving my 
game. ” 

The side-blow was meant for certain by-stand- 
ers who rather fancied themselves at piquet. 

“ As far as practice goes, you must have had 
the advantage in point of quality, if not in quan- 
tity,” Irving answered, with a glance round that 
took the edge off the other’s sarcasm. “I’ve 
been playing a good deal lately, it's true , in Ger- 
many, first, with a real professor, who is gone, 
I’m afraid not to a better world — Paradise, with- 
out piquet, would be Purgatory to poor Berns- 
dorff — and lately in Scotland with a near neigh- 
bor of mine — Mark Ramsay of Kenlis Castle — 
a fine player too, though a little flashy. He’s in 
town now, and I shouldn’t wonder if he were put 
up here. Does any one know him ?” 

Blanchmayne grunted out a negative , and it 
was evident that the name had no interest or sig- 
nificance for any there present — save one. 

Anstruther started ; and, if you had watched 
his face narrowly, you would have seen his brow 
contract and his lips brace themselves ; but he 
never uttered a syllable till the partie was de- 
cided easily in Irving’s favor. During the 
buzz of comment that ensued — the Viscount 
chose to defer his revenge — he accosted the con- 
queror. 

“ I never had the pleasure of meeting you be- 
fore to-day. When we’re better acquainted, I 
hope you’ll give me some lessons at piquet ; but, 
frankly speaking, that’s not my object now. 
You said that the Ramsays are in town, I think? 
I was not aware of it. Perhaps you can tell me 
where they are staying ? My name is George 
Anstruther. ” 

“You flatter me,” the other said with a little 
deprecating laugh. “On q partie don’t go for 
much : I’m more likely to learn than to teach 
here. I remember your name quite well ; for I 
heard Mrs. Ramsay say that she could not pre- 
vail on you to come so far north. Luckily I can 
give you their address. For the present they’ve 
got rooms at ’s.” 

In those days the renown of that famous Car- 
avanserai was scarcely limited by the frontier of 
civilization. Its ancient proprietor — an enter- 
prising cosmopolitan, who, in the pursuit of his 
profession, soared superbly above prejudice and 
conscience — has gone to settle his own account, 
or found a principality in some far-off clime ; and 
the place is changed — not for the better, perhaps. 
But even now, few strangers arriving there- 
hailing from regions howsoever remote, of the 
four continents — need be debarred from their 
national comforts and delicacies. Prayer-car- 
pets are still provided at a small extra charge, 
and a space on the house-top is especially set 
apart for sun-worship. If the heir-apparent of 
the Cannibal Isles were sojourning there, I doubt 
not that Jilets de gar$on a la Perouse would be 
served at his table as often as it pleased him — 
always provided that the prince were not terrified 


94 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


by the figures set over against that dish of savory 
meat in the bill. 

“I thought of calling there on my way home” 
— Irving went on — “only to leave a message, 
though. Shall I give you a lift so far ?” 

Anstrnther’s manner — especially with stran- 
gers — was always rather stiff and formal ; but it 
was unusally constrained now, and he seemed to 
shrink back within himself, as if he regretted 
having made the first advances towards conver- 
sation. 

“Thanks. I should be very happy, if I were 
not otherwise engaged,” he said; “but I can’t 
possibly call this afternoon. I shall take an ear- 
ly opportunity of doing so. ” 

The change in the speaker’s tone did not 
escape Irving— very few things passing within his 
sight or hearing did escape him. lie thought 
there was something decidedly eccentric about 
his new acquaintance ; but he simply bowed his 
head, as if accepting the excuse. 

“ Shall I mention that we have met, if I hap- 
pen to see Mrs. Ramsay? I think, from what I 
have heard her say at Kenlis, she would be glad 
to know that you are in town.” 

“If you — please,” Anstruther answered — this 
time with marked hesitation ; and then turned 
away abruptly. 

“A very fair beginning,” Irving mused, as he 
stepped gingerly across the slippery pavement 
to his cab, and pulled up the windows. “I 
rather believe in auguries, and it’s as well to 
start with something in hand. Blanchmayne 
was quite right. His game isn’t improved since 
we met last : I think I’ve got his. measure. It 
remains to be seen what the others are like : it 
wouldn’t be safe to take his estimate of them, 
that’s certain ; but with even paper I ought to 
hold my own. It strikes me, my losings to 
Bernsdorff weren’t such a bad investment. I'll 
take odds, that same Anstruther knows a thing 
or two. I don’t fancy those modest people who 
are so ready to take lessons, particularly when 
they’re mj> canny countrymen ; and there’s no 
doubt on which side of the Border he was begot- 
ten. It’s a hard-bitten face : but how queer it 
looked just now ! I believe he’d have blushed if 
he hadn’t forgotten the trick — and what made 
him stammer? It’g not his habit, evidently. 
Mrs. Ramsay spoke of him as a sort of guard- 
ian, if I remember right. Can there have been 
any love passages ? Absurd ! A (Tautres , mon 
bon A 

A complacent chuckle suggested what sort of 
comparison he was drawing in. his mind just 
then. 

Mrs. Ramsay was not at home when he call- 
ed, so that evening Irving had no chance of see- 
ing whether her face would have furnished mat- 
ter for guess-work at the mention of a certain 
name. 

When Anstruther turned away after the col- 
loquy recorded above, he went first to one of the 
whist-tables, and stood watching the progress 
of the game ; after a minute or two, as if he 
had suddenly remembered something, he walked 
quickly through the door leading into a smaller 
apartment used as a writing-room. It was emp- 
ty just then, as indeed was generally the case ; 
for little correspondence was conducted at the 
Orion, and ink was seldom used save for the 
drawing of checks. He sat down at one of the 


tables and took up a pen ; but this was a palpa- 
ble excuse for lingering there, for he never 
traced a word on the paper before him. His 
thoughts were in a strange medley, and he him- 
self could hardly have told whether they were 
more tinged with pleasure or pain. 

One thing was certain : the calm of the last 
few weeks had been utterly broken up within the 
last half hour. The phantoms that had kept 
aloof for a while were at their old mocks again 
already, and they were clearer in outline now — - 
more like the reflections in a mirror of forms in 
flesh and blood. So she was in London ; with- 
in reach — easy reach — of him at that very mo- 
ment. To-morrow — this very day, for the mat- 
ter of that — he might, if he chose, prove wheth- 
er the soft brown eyes had forgotten to look up 
pleadingly, and whether the cool white fingers 
would still send the same feverish thrill through 
his pulses as when they touched his wrist on a 
certain afternoon. Was it well to make the 
trial? Would it not be wiser to fly — ay, even 
to the uttermost parts of the earth — while he 
could yet use his wings, than to hover stupidly 
over the snare? He recognized with self-con- 
tempt verging on self-loathing — nevertheless he 
did recognize it — that he was being mastered 
by a passion utterly irrational, hopeless, and 
guilty. Truth to say, it was not the guilt that 
made him shrink and waver. 

When George Anstruther’s character was first 
sketched, he was set down, as you will remem- 
ber, as one self-respecting rather than God-fear- 
ing ; and when a monitor like self-respect calms 
such a turmoil as was working within him. then 
flax-withes will bind fire-brands. If he had been 
inclined to boast that he had avoided hitherto 
gross or overt offence against written law, he 
must needs have boasted himself as one whom 
chance or circumstance has kept clear of the 
verge of battle, rather than as one putting off 
harness smirched and dinted by strife. He was 
virtuous — or what the world calls virtuous — by 
habit rather than by creed ; and he had no sure 
or abiding principle wheveunto to cling when a 
fierce temptation dragged him down. 

Since Phryne, laughing scornfully, shut her 
door in the face of the poor philosopher who 
came a-wooing with the dye fresh on his scanty 
locks, what a many right merrie jests have been 
indited concerning the loves of elders! Yet if 
the records of crime throughout all nations and 
all ages were searched narrowly, not many black- 
er pages would be found than those Avhereon it 
is written what befell in the baffling or the ac- 
complishing of these untimely passions. 

Young man’s love blazeth, and is done ; 

Old man’s love burnetii to the bone. 

There is truth enough in that rude couplet to 
leaven a large lump of Proverbial Philosophy. 

The curled darlings, scarcely out of their teens, 
are prone enough — Heaven knows! — to waste a 
fair inheritance, and dishonor an ancient name, 
for a harlot’s kiss or a coquette’s smile ; and even 
the Barnwell tragedy repeats itself only too often. 
But in sin and shame there is always a deeper 
depth — well for us and our children that it is so 
— and the boy will stand shivering and shrinking 
on the brink of the pit into which the graybeard 
has plunged headlong at the beck of waving white 
arms. Wild tales assuredly might have been told 
of Antony’s youth ; but I doubt if, while his brow 


95 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


was bent, he would have followed so fast in the 
wake of the Egyptian galley while the seafight 
was swaying to and fro off Actium, or have set 
his breast so straight against his sword’s point at 
the first rumor of Cleopatra’s suicide. 

o 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

“Perhaps we may meet again before very 
long. ” 

So much, and no more, said Alice Irving, when 
she hade adieu to her hostess at Ivenlis. She did 
not deem it necessary to set forth more definite- 
ly her father’s plans for the winter; and when 
Blanche a little hesitatingly answered, “I’m sure 
I hope so,” the latter did not dream the truth of 
her words would be tested so soon. She count- 
ed, not unnaturally, on a brief respite from the 
anxieties and suspicions that had harassed her 
of late ; and when, on the fourth evening after 
their arrival in town, Mark observed„carelessly, 
“I met Irving in St. James’s Street this after- 
noon, ’’her heart gave a painful throb, and then 
sank within her. Had her thoughts been put into 
words, she might have murmured, 

“ Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?” 

If she manifested no great pleasure at the in- 
telligence, she betrayed no vexation. You would 
have detected no sarcasm in her placid reply : 

“ Indeed! I didn’t think they would have fol- 
lowed us so quickly.” 

But as she lay awake that night alone, as was 
usual now — for Mark, since he took to keeping 
late hours, occupied a separate sleeping-chamber, 
on the pretext of not breaking his wife’s rest — 
the tears rolled fast down her cheeks, and she did 
not try to check them. She remembered how 
she had lain awake musing once before — on the 
eve of her second marriage-day. That was only 
a few months ago ; yet how far, far off it seemed ! 
Her heart had fluttered then, but not painfully, 
and she fell asleep smiling. Her smiles now were 
for the world to see, and it was hard work to find 
them sometimes ; certainly it was not worth while 
to force them for her own behoof. And then, in 
spite of herself — for here she strove hard to turn 
the current of her thoughts — she remembered 
Oswald Gauntlet’s warning. Would he be glad 
or sorry if he knew that it had all, or nearly all, 
come true ? Not glad, she felt right sure of that. 
Then she fell a-wondering where Oswald was just 
now. Perhaps he was in town, or at Woolwich 
— much the same thing. Suppose she were to 
write a little note to his club, and ask him to call 
on her, just once, for the sake of old times, letting 
bygones be bygones. Amongst her conjugal con- 
fidences were not included the details of that last 
interview in Craven Square ; but would Mark be 
likely to object, even if he knew all ? Blanche 
sighed drearily, as she acknowledged that she need 
have no scruples on that score. She felt as if the 
sight of a kind, familiar face, even though it should 
look on her at first somewhat angrily, and the 
clasp of a strong, honest hand — not a white, wom- 
anly one, like Captain Irving’s — might help to 
brace her nerves. There were substantial dan- 
gers enough around her ; but she had begun to 
start at the merest shadows of late ; and, since 
she had no longer La Reine to lean upon, the 
sense of isolation and helplessness darkened round 


her hourly. Yes ; she would certainly write. To 
have settled even so much was some comfort ; 
nevertheless, she fairly cried herself to sleep. 

Before noon on the following day the note was 
duly despatched ; but the messenger brought word 
back that Major Gauntlet was still abroad, that 
it was not known when he would return, and that, 
till further notice, his letters were to be forward- 
ed to the Poste Restante, Vienna. Mrs. Ramsay 
was bitterly disappointed. All that morning she 
had been rehearsing, much to her own satisfac- 
tion, an imaginary scene with Oswald, and now 
it seemed likely to be deferred indefinitely. She 
could not possibly write and ask him to come 
back from Vienna. It was provoking, to say the 
least of it ; and in the first moment of vexation, 
I fear she spoke unadvisedly with her lips concern- 
ing Commissions, and the War Office to boot. 
Unless their lovers’ or their friends’ credit be at 
stake, very few of our sisters are patriotic or Spar- 
tan enough to submit without a murmur to their 
private arrangements being thwarted by public 
duty; and betwixt such superior persons and our 
poor Blanche there was not a single feeling or 
idea in common. 

In this discontented mood, after making an ut- 
terly abortive attempt at luncheon, Blanche was 
debating with herself how she should get rid of 
the afternoon — none of her confidential were in 
town, and to general converse she felt by no means 
equal — when Mr. Anstruther’s card was brought 
up. 

“ Certainly ; I shall be very glad,” she said, in 
answer to the query whether she would receive 
the visitor. 

This was not merely a form of words. An old 
acquaintance was not like an old friend, particu- 
larly such an old friend as Oswald Gauntlet ; but 
the homely proverb about “half a loaf” applies 
to the petite maitresse sometimes, no less than to 
the peasant wench, and Blanche just now was 
not inclined to be dainty. 

This was where his meditations of overnight 
had led George Anstruther. It could hardly be 
otherwise : when such a question is once debated, 
as a rule it is virtually lost. It struck Blanche 
that he was somewhat altered since they last met. 
He looked certainly gaunter and more angular, 
and altogether more precise and formal, than 
heretofore. He was carefully dressed, as usual ; 
but, abased as the man was already — at all events, 
in his own eyes — he was still above the devices 
of elderly foppery, and chose that his face and 
figure should remain as time and climate had left 
them. Mrs. Ramsay, it seemed, was quite con- 
tent to take him as he was ; and a more sanguine 
visitor would have been satisfied with the warmth 
of her welcome. 

“ One is never really at home in a hotel,” she 
said, after the first greetings had been exchanged, 
“ even in the way of receiving one’s friends ; but 
there are exceptions to all rules, and the week 
would not have passed without my letting you 
know our whereabouts. By -the -by, how did 
you find us out ?” 

He answered the first part of her speech only 
by a stiff bow. 

“It was at the Orion, an old-fashioned club I 
dare say you never heard of. A Captain Irving 
mentioned Mr. Ramsay’s name. From what he 
said, I fancy he must have been a constant visitor 
at Kenlis.” 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


9G 

Had the room grown darker all of a sudden, 
or was the fresh shadow on Blanche’s face ? 

“A very constant visitor,” she said hurriedly. 
“He was our nearest neighbor, to be sure, and 
any thing like society is at a premium in the far 
North ; but Mark and he have become almost 
inseparable of late. They are both devoted to 
piquet, you know.” 

Mie thought afterwards he guessed at her 
embarrassment, and would have helped her out 
of it. » 

‘ ‘ Quite enough to account for an intimacy, I 
think. It’s a fascinating game, as I’ve found to 
my cost. Yes, it was as a piquet-player your 
husband was first alluded to. Then I introduced 
myself to Captain Irving, for the purpose of find- 
ing out if you were in town.” 

“Then you cared to know?” she asked, with 
one of the shy, eloquent glances that had helped 
to do much mischief in old times. 

Anstruther bore it bravely — at least, not a 
muscle in his stolid, rough-hewn face stirred, but 
the fingers that lay crossed on his knee were 
locked a little more tightly. 

‘ 4 Undoubtedly I cared, ” he made answer. ‘ 4 1 
have not so many friends that I can afford either 
to forget or neglect them. I assure you I often 
thought of you at Kenlis, and hoped you were 
making the most of all that glorious weather. 
There hasn’t been such a Highland autumn for 
years, they tell me. ” 

“Yes, the weather was perfect; it is a pity 
you were not with us to enjoy it. I hardly ex- 
pected a refusal, I own. Did you not give me a 
half promise when you gave me — this ?” 

She drew out of the bodice of her high velvet 
dress the amulet you wot of, with the fire-opal 
gleaming in the square of dusky gold. 

Anstruther’s cheek flushed for a second quite 
visibly, though in the stiffness of his manner 
there was no change. 

44 If I had given a whole instead of a half 
promise — and even to that I don't plead guilty, ” 
he said, “I must needs have broken it. I was 
working out my time at Wiesbaden. I didn’t 
expect much of the waters, luckily, or I should 
have been disappointed ; but I thought them 
worth a trial. So you wear that trinket some- 
times ? It is highly honored.” 

“It’s silly to be superstitious, I suppose,” she 
said, 4 4 but I never pretended to be wise. I have 
great faith in talismans. Don’t they lose their 
virtue if they are not always worn? Have you 
been ill, then ? I had no idea you were at Wies- 
baden for health’s sake, or I should not have ac- 
cused you of playing me false. ” 

44 It was nothing worth speaking of,” he replied 
indifferently; “only the harvest of seed sown 
long ago in India. But I cannot, to speak truth, 
congratulate you on the effects of Highland air. 
Would it be impertinent to ask you that same 
question ?” 

44 By no means impertinent; my glass tells 
me the same blunt truth every morning. No, 
the air certainly didn’t brace me as it ought to 
have done. I think I never knew what it was 
to be thoroughly tired before, with no sufficient 
exercise to account for it.” 

“Had you a very large party to entertain?” 
he asked; “because that is fatigue enough in 
itself, no matter how pleasant the society.” 

His cold gray eyes were steady, as a rule, 


rather than piercing, but now she was aware of 
a scrutiny in them that set her on her guard. 

“Not at all a large party: only the Brance- 
peths and Mr. Alsager — these you know — and 
Colonel Yane, an old acquaintance of mine and 
Mark’s. To be sure the Irvings might almost 
be reckoned in our party, for they were more at 
Kenlis than at Drumour.” 

‘ 4 Captain Irving is married, then ?” 

Blanche only half liked the interrogatory, es- 
pecially as she suspected a purpose in it. 

“ He has been a widower some years,” she re- 
plied, with a slight movement of impatience, as 
if she had had enough of the subject. 44 He has 
one daughter — a fascinating person in every way. 
You can judge of that for yourself, if you’ll meet 
them here at dinner to-morrow. It’s difficult to 
tempt you, I know ; but, if you’re fond of music, 
when you have heard them sing together you 
won’t repent for once breaking your rule. And 
we shall be such a small party — only six, with 
yourself. ” 

Anstruther’s deliberation was long enough to 
have suited a weightier question than the accept- 
ance or refusal of a simple dinner invitation. 

“ Thanks — you are very kind,” he said at last. 
“I’m ashamed to say that the music is no great 
temptation to me. Putting that aside, I shall be 
glad to dine with you to-morrow.” 

Blanche was really pleased. That his old- 
fashioned reserve should have yielded to her first 
word was a triumph in its way, though scarcely 
one on which she would have plumed herself a 
year ago ; and it was a certain satisfaction to 
feel that the virtue of persuasion had not wholly 
gone out of her. 

“That is prettily said,” she answered. “The 
bad habit of always saying 4 no’ is difficult to 
cure, but your case cannot be desperate yet. I 
shall reckon on you ; and if you fail me this 
time, don’t expect to be forgiven.” 

44 There’s no danger of my failing,” Anstruther 
answered, as he rose to take his leave. “A punc- 
tual eight, I suppose ? Don’t blame me if your 
party is spoiled — a stranger coming amongst in- 
timates is apt to be a kill-joy. ”- 

“We’ll take our chance of that,” she said. 
“I wish I were as sure that you wouldn't be 
bored. Till to-morrow, then.” 

It does not at all follow that an interview 
should have been disagreeable, either in antici- 
pation or reality, because we are sensible of a re- 
lief when it is over. There was not the smallest 
necessity for Anstruther to have presented him- 
self on that day — or, indeed, on any other — be- 
fore Mrs. Ramsay. He had taken some pains to 
ascertain where she was staying, and had mount- 
ed those stairs entirely of his own free will ; yet 
he descended them with something like a light- 
ening of spirit. It may be that he had distrust- 
ed his self-command more than he cared to con- 
fess to himself, and was proportionately inclined 
to rejoice that it had carried him through with- 
out a stumble. Yet, for all this, he despised him- 
self not a whit less heartily now than he had 
done when he first recognized his weakness, and 
ceased to fight against it. He was not destitute 
of a grim sense of humor; and the ridicule of 
the whole position struck him so forcibly, that 
twice or thrice as he walked through the streets 
he could scarcely forbear laughing aloud. And 
this man— you will remember— for a score of 


97 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


years past had rarely rewarded any jest, spoken 
or written, with any thing beyond a coldly ap- 
preciative smile. 

“I wonder what they’d say at the Orion,” so 
his thoughts ran, “if they got an inkling of all 
this ? Much what I should have said last spring, 
I suppose, if I heard that Blanchmayne had 
eloped with somebody else’s wife, or Thorndyke 
had taken to the squiring of dames. They are 
neither of them five years my senior, and I’ve no 
doubt they are twice as well preserved. Does it 
make it any better that I’m going down hill with 
my eyes open ? Better ? A thousand times 
worse. I know so well, too, the very uttermost 
that I’m likely to win — a soft shy look, some- 
thing like what I saw to-day ; or a whisper — 
‘You’re so very kind, Mr. Anstruther; I know 
you’d help me if you could.’ Well, and isn’t it 
enough — and more than enough ? Just as if the 
thing that was George Anstruther a year ago 
■would not pass through fire for a lighter reward 
than the lightest of these. Help her ? So I will, 
somehow ; and perhaps without her leave or li- 
cense. I half guess already what has made her 
cheek so pale and thin. I’ll see my way clearer 
* after to-morrow ; but if I would keep my wits 
about me, I must keep this flutter quiet. I’ll 
have sleep to-night at any price. ” 

Mrs. Ramsay, too, had her little meditation, 
all to herself, after her visitor had departed. 

“There is one, at all events,” she thought, 

‘ ‘ who likes me as tvell as ever — I almost fancy, 
better than ever. It’s not a very magnificent 
conquest, to be sure. How Queenie would laugh 
if she heard of it ! I wish she were here all the 
same : I do miss her dreadfully. I am sure he 
guessed I had been unhappy, and pitied me in 
his awkward way. It’s very ungrateful to say 
so ; but I’d rather he hadn’t done either. There 
are not above two or three people alive that I 
should like to be pitied by, much less that I 
would ask to help me. And, after all, how can 
any one help ? Even I can only w r ait, and hope 
against hope. Ah me ! It’s a w r eary world, aft- 
er all, and I used to think it such a pleasant 
one ; and to think, too, how sad it would be to 
have to leave it before one’s time. I don’t think 
so now. If I could have one whole year just like 
last summer, I’d be content to lie down quietly 
and trouble no one any more — not that I’ve been 
any trouble to Mark as yet. He ought to re- 
member that, whatever happens. Perhaps he 
does remember it, for he has never spoken un- 
kindly to me yet. I almost wish he would some- 
times ; any thing would be better than being put 
on one side in that off-hand, good-tempered way. 
And how well-drilled she is too ! Even Queenie 
— though I know she was always on the watch — 
never could find any thing to quarrel with ; but 
how do I know what goes on when she and Mark 
are alone together, or how often that happens? 
He’s out the whole day long, and it can’t be bus- 
iness that keeps him, for I don’t believe he’s real- 
ly begun house-hunting yet. There, there — I’m 
foolish again. I’d better order the carriage be- 
fore my eyes get red : the air may cure my head- 
ache, if it don’t my heartache. ” 

The dinner next day went off pleasantly 
enough. Putting Anstruther out of the ques- 
tion, it was almost a family party : the sixth 
guest was Vere Alsager ; and when people who 
have lived for some space in the same country 

G 


quarters meet for the first time in town, they 
generally feel more or less domestic for the mo- 
ment. Anstruther said but little, and that little 
chiefly to Mrs. Ramsay, on whose right hand he 
was placed ; but his presence was no constraint 
on the others ; and Mark — who was invariably 
courteous to each and every one of his wife’s 
friends or acquaintance — soon put the stranger 
thoroughly at his ease. Prejudiced as he was 
against Ramsay, and little inclined to appreciate i 
mere outward graces, Anstruther was not thor- 
oughly proof against the charm of the other’s 
manner ; and, when the women had departed, 
he moved — not unwillingly — into the chair next 
to his host’s. 

‘ ‘ I was rather disappointed in not seeing you 
at the club this afternoon, Mr. Anstruther,” Ir- 
ving remarked. “They tell me you rarely fail 
to put in an appearance there.” 

“I had business that detained me,” the other 
answered rather hesitatingly — he had been so 
much out of the way of conventionalities, that 
even an excuse came lamely off his tongue — “ I 
shall take my lesson before long, rely upon it.” 

“ The lesson will be the other way, from what 
I hear, ” Irving said. “The Viscount allowed 
that ‘ you were acquainted with the first princi- 
ples of the game ;’ so you must be nearly de la 
premiere force ; but that wasn’t why I specially 
wished to meet you. Ramsay’s name was put 
up there to-day, with Blanchmayne as his pro- 
poser, and I meant to ask you to second him. 
I’d have done it myself, of course ; but I’ve been 
at the Orion so rarely of late that I’m almost for- 
gotten there ; and you are as one in authority, I 
understood.” 

Now, though Anstruther had small liking or 
esteem for Blanche’s husband, the proposal would 
have been less distasteful coming from any oth- 
er channel. Long judicial practice, and natural 
keenness of perception, had made him no mean 
physiognomist ; at all events, he had got accus- 
tomed to facial warnings, and to rest a good deal 
on first impressions ; and these had rarely de- 
ceived him. He had not watched that partie of 
piquet two days ago for naught. He had begun 
to distrust from the very first those smooth, deli- 
cate features and glittering eyes, and guessed 
that sharp, cruel talons could come forth on oc- 
casion from the velvet paws. He would never, 
thereafter, have met Alexander Irving in any re- 
lation of life, where his own or a friend’s interest 
was deeply concerned, without standing some- 
what on his guard. In the very proposal that 
he, Geoi’ge Anstruther, should avouch Mark 
Ramsay a good man and true, there was some- 
thing that jarred ; but, issuing from that espe- 
cial quarter, it sounded ominous and unnatural. 
However, there was no real choice left him. 

There are persons, doubtless — luckily their 
name is not Legion — who, when replete with old 
wine and fat venison, would decline without 
sufficient cause, remember— to requite their en- 
tertainer with such a slight service ; and depart, 
pluming themselves on having discharged a so- 
cial duty rather cleverly. But Anstruther was 
by no means equal to such an occasion : he hes- 
itated just long enough to prevent the acquies- 
cence being cordial, and then professed his will- 
ingness to become Mr. Ramsay’s seconder, and 
forward his election in all reasonable ways— dis- 
claiming, at the same time, any thing like influ- 


98 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


ence at the Orion. The obliged person noticed 
the hesitation without guessing at its cause : it 
rather amused him than otherwise, and did not 
in the least interfere with his expressions of ac- 
knowledgment. Irving observed it too, and be- 
ing considerably mystified thereby, gave the puz- 
zle much more thought than Mark had done. 

“What the devil was he boggling at?” said 
he to himself. “ It’s just of a piece with his be- 
ginning to stammer the other night, for no rhyme 
or reason. People with mysteries have no busi- 
ness in society. He’ll bring about an imbroglio 
somehow or other before all’s done ; see if he 
don’t ! But it’s not likely to affect me or mine, 
that’s one comfort.” 

Alexander Irving remembered those last words 
— and with cause — before all was done. 

Whatever his private fancies might have been, 
no sign of suspicion showed itself on the surface ; 
and the flow of desultory talk went smoothly on, 
till Alsager, whose love of music amounted to a 
passion, suggested a move. Both father and 
daughter were in superb voice that night ; and 
even Blanche’s admiration was, for the moment, 
sincere. But to one man there present — though 
he seemed to listen, in rapt attention, with half- 
closed eyes — the rich melody w T as as the flowing 
of a far-off torrent, without rhythm or distin- 
guishment of sound. With all his vigilance — 
and neither eyes nor ears had for an instant that 
evening been off duty — Anstruther had failed 
to catch a look or word whereon suspicion might 
be grounded. Nevertheless, he had gained the 
first letter of the word which, when fully formed, 
would unlock the secret. Over this he ponder- 
ed ; and as he drove homewards alone, he mur- 
mured, half aloud, 

1 ‘ A blight on the fair false face ! I know now 
what makes the other wan and pale. ” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

When Captain Irving spoke of the current 
year as one of financial famine, he rather over- 
colored the state of the case. That he was still 
suffering, as he had long suffered, from chronic 
insufficiency of income was perfectly true ; for 
his life-interest in Druinour was heavily encum- 
bered, and never likely to be otherwise ; and the 
sum derived from the letting of the house and 
shooting was barely sufficient to cover house- 
hold expenditure, conducted on ever so modest a 
scale. Unless the cards were kind, luxuries were 
out of the question. He had grown accustomed 
to thus living from hand to mouth, and from 
hour to hour, and perhaps did not altogether 
dislike it. He was such an inveterate gambler, 
that increase of fortune would only have led to 
playing for increased stakes ; so that a heavy 
run of ill-luck might at any moment have re- 
duced him to his present ebb. 

We all know how the Indian “brave” — of 
the Cooper type — bears himself when, having 
lost his last horse, so that he can chase the buf- 
falo no longer, he sees the keg of fire-water 
empty and his wigwam-walls bare of meat. He 
wastes no breath in cursing or praying, but 
chooses some convenient spot for ambush, and 
will wait there patiently from dawn to evening, 
and from evening to dawn — only tightening his 


belt sometimes to choke the wolf within him — • 
till the Great Spirit shall see- fit to send game 
within reach of his arrow. In Irving, an epi- 
curean by habit and inclination to the tips of his 
delicate fingers, there was a strong dash of this 
simple stoicism. When he found that his re- 
sources were crippled for a time, he accepted 
the position with perfect good-lmmor; making 
I a jest of privation and of the shifts that he was 
compelled to resort to. Alice never complain- 
ed, to be sure : that was a. great point ; and, on 
the whole, the wheels of their frail chariot rolled 
on more smoothly than could have been expect- 
ed. 

Fortune had rather smiled than frowned on 
Captain Irving of late, or he would not have 
been found that autumn at Drumour, though 
there were sufficient reasons for his presence 
there ; for the lease of the house and shooting 
had just expired, and no eligible offer of fresh 
tenancy had been made, up to the time when 
the absentee resolved to try what a spell of his 
native air would do toward banishing certain 
ailments that had begun to trouble him. He 
was not quite satisfied with the way in which 
his interests, such as they were, had been looked* 
after there of late ; and though he would have 
laughed the very idea to scorn, there abode with 
him, perchance, still some faint tinge of the nos- 
talgia which is found nowhere so strong as in the 
Scot. Indeed, at first — though out-door pur- 
suits were entirely out of his line, and he set his 
foot upon his native heath only under protest — 
it was rather pleasant to loiter about the old 
haunts, and to throw a fly into the pool out of 
which his first trout was landed, and to watch 
the sun go down behind a hill that was, nomi- 
nally at least, his own. But, as the novelty wore 
off, Irving began gravely to misdoubt the wisdom 
of his jnove from Darmstadt ; before the Kenlis- 
Castle party appeared upon the scene, he had 
more than once unmistakably regretted it. Aft- 
erward it was different ; and the autumn passed 
away quite as rapidly as he could wish : but the 
prospect of a Highland winter was any thing 
but inviting. Nevertheless, acting up to his 
principle of “ what can’t be cured must be en- 
dured,” the Laird of Drumour had made up his 
mind to be ice-bound; and it was only the 
stroke of luck mentioned above that induced 
him to alter his plans. 

Self was bound to stand first and foremost in 
all Captain Irving’s calculations ; but he was 
not positively an unnatural father. Though pa- 
rental solicitude had really little to do with his 
move southward, he would never have dreamed 
of leaving Alice in the North alone ; and in his 
choice of town-quarters her comfort and con- 
venience were certainly more studied than his 
own. He was not a man of half-measures, and, 
before he decided to winter in London, had suf- 
ficient in hand to make petty economies needless. 
He had no notion of being cabined in furnished 
apartments, or of testing his digestion by a lodger 
cuisine. Three of the Drumour household — the 
cook, butler, and Alice’s own maid — accompanied 
their master to town ; and before the week was 
out, the Irvings were established in one of the 
daintiest maisonnettes in Mayfair — “absolutely 
thrown away,” according to the pathetic house- 
agent, at twelve guineas a week. 

Captain Irving was very consistent in his habits 


90 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


though they were the reverse of what are usually 
called “ regular.” The time of his going to rest 
was rather uncertain, to be sure ; about two a. m., 
rather before than after, would have been a fair 
average. From that time up to noon the outer 
world, with the exception of his valet, had no cog- 
nizance of or communication with him. Punctu- 
ally, or almost punctually, at that hour he break- 
fasted in foreign fashion, and was choice in his 
light wines. Unless she had some exceptional 
engagement, which rarely happened, he liked 
Alice to keep him company at this meal. It 
was not a heavy tqx on filial duty, and it was 
about the only one she was called upon to render. 
Of the rest of the day she was free to dispose ac- 
cording to her pleasure ; and a brougham with a 
coachman warranted steady was at her service 
to carry her whither she would. No matter 
what the weather, her father went forth soon 
after one, and never by any chance put in an ap- 
pearance again till close on dressing- time. 

First, he drove, or, if the morning was excep- 
tionally fine, sauntered, down to his club at the 
corner of Pall Mall, where he usually met three 
or four ancient comrades who remembered Alec 
Irving as “devilish good company” when they 
were all beardless guardsmen together, and were 
quite willing to chat with him now, in spite of 
the scandals that had since attached to his name 
— scandals almost forgotten by this time, even if 
they did not come within the social Statute of 
Limitations. After lounging away an hour or so 
here, he went about any business he might have 
on hand, such as a visit to his banker s ; but by 
three, or thereabouts, he generally found himself 
opposite Lord Blanchmayne, or some other an- 
tagonist of the like calibre, at the piquet-table. 
Thence he returned straight home, just in time 
for a leisurely evening toilet. This ceremonial 
he was never known to pretermit ; and, whether 
he dined alone with Alice or in society, made no 
sort of difference either in the process or the re- 
sult. In the former case he rather lingei'ed than 
hurried over his repast, and dallied for at least 
twenty minutes with his coffee and chasse; but 
it was rarely much past ten when he bade his 
daughter an affectionate good-night, and depart-, 
ed to his club again. When they dined in soci- 
ety — which was seldom — the brougham always 
left him at the Orion, after dropping Alice at 
home. 

It was a strange, lone life for a woman in the 
prime of youth and beauty ; for, with the excep- 
tion of a maiden aunt whom she could not en- 
dure, and a couple of cousins whom she hardly 
knew, Alice had no relatives in town ; and, from 
having sojourned so long 1 abroad, her acquaint- 
ance scarcely extended beyond the people she 
had met at Kenlis. 

But was it so certain that her life was lonely ? 

Most parents, however much wrapped up in 
their own pursuits, would have found time to 
ask themselves that question, if not of others. 
But Alice had been so used to be left to her own 
devices, and her father’s conscience had so long 
ago ceased to prick him on that point, that per- 
haps it was only likely that the existing state of 
things should seem to both the most natural ar- 
rangement possible. What turned Captain Ir- 
ving’s meditations into a particular channel, on 
a particular morning, it would be very difficult 
to say. It so happened that he had won rather 


largely overnight ; but an equally heavy reverse 
would not have accounted for his being captious, 
or fretful, or inclined to disturb the peace of his 
establishment. In this respect he was a model 
for better men. Possibly some vision had dis- 
quieted him. No philosopher, unless his diges- 
tion be faultless, can afford to laugh at dreams. 
Howsoever this might be, it was clear that some- 
thing was amiss with Irving just now. He was 
unusually taciturn at breakfast, and sent away 
one of his favorite dishes untasted. If his brow 
were not precisely stormy, it was certainly over- 
cast. Alice was not a whit alarmed by these 
unusual demonstrations ; but rather curious as 
to their cause and meaning. At last, glancing 
up from her Post , she asked her father, point- 
blank, what he was thinking about. 

“ I was thinking,” he answered very deliber- 
ately, “ what a pity it was your mother died so 
soon.” 

Alice opened her great eyes in wonder. Truty, 
to find grapes growing on thorns, or milk flow- 
ing in a barren land, would have seemed likelier 
than a gush of sentiment from such a source. 

“Do you really think it a pity?” she said 
placidly. “I always fancied poor mamma was 
saved so much trouble. It must have been a 
great loss to you at first ; but I thought you had 
quite got over it.” 

The satire was quite sufficiently veiled for 
Irving to have passed it by at any other time ; 
now, he winced perceptibly. 

“ I wouldn’t sneer if I were you, it don’t suit 
your style of face ; besides, there’s no point in it, 
as it happens. It was for your sake, not for 
mine, that I thought it was a pity. Your mother 
was not a clever woman, but she would have been 
about equal to playing duenna ; and, it seems to 
me, you want one. Now we are on the subject 
— what are your engagements this afternoon ?” 

“Nothing tremendous,” she answered. “I 
think of going to see the pictures at the Winter 
Exhibition, and then I shall pay a duty-visit to 
Aunt Caroline. She’s quite enough of a bore 
a9it is, without making herself out neglected.” 

“Do you go to the pictures alone?” 

“ I go alone, certainly; I believe Mr. Ram- 
say will meet me there. He has a marked cat- 
alogue, which will be useful.” 

“ Very useful, no doubt. Now, when did you 
see his wife last ?” 

The dry, semi-judicial tone of these queries 
puzzled Alice exceedingly, to say the least of it ; 
and her color began to heighten. 

“ I forget whether it was on Thursday or Fri- 
day : what makes you ask ?” 

“Never mind what makes me ask; but an- 
swer me one more question. When did you see 
him last ? Perhaps your memory won’t fail you 
there.” 

“I saw him yesterday,” she said, with perfect 
composure. “ It’s quite a new idea, papa, your 
taking so much interest in my visits and visitors 
I suppose I ought to feel flattered.” 

“ You may suppose I have some reason for it, 
at all events. Alice, listen to me. I have a 
suspicion — only a faint suspicion, mind — that 
there’s some fooling afoot between you and Mark 
Ramsay. Now, once for all — I won’t have it. 
There are people who can carry off such things 
with a high hand, simply by virtue of their posi- 
tion ; but we’re not strong enough to muzzle 


100 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


the scandalmongers, and I don’t intend that half 
the idle tongues in London should be set wag- 
ging at our expense. I don't know what they 
may do in America ; but I do know there’s no 
country in Europe where a girl can carry flirta- 
tion with a married man beyond a certain point 
without risking her reputation. Do you under- 
stand me ; or shall I speak plainer?” 

The girl drew herself up haughtily. There 
was a strong family likeness betwixt the two ; 
though in Alice there were signs of an energy 
of existence — a vivida vis , as the Latins have it 
— and of a quick energy that could never have 
belonged to her father ; for, from his youth up- 
ward, Irving’s demeanor had been marked by a 
listless indifference — not only to things in gen- 
eral, but to the matter actually in hand — and 
this had told heavily against him in his by-gone 
fredaines. People would have it that he sinned, 
not from impulse, but of aforethought; and gave 
judgment accordingly. This outward likeness 
was never so striking as when their faces hard- 
ened. 

“Yes, I understand you,” she said, low and 
distinctly. “ There’s no need for plainer speak- 
ing. Married flirtations are utterly unpardon- 
able, unless — they are carried on with a purpose. 
Conscientious scruples are always to be respect- 
ed, of course. I almost wonder, papa, that these 
didn’t develop themselves eighteen months ago, 
in dear, dull, respectable Darmstadt. There, 
surely, if anywhere, one would have thought we 
ought to have been careful about the proprieties. 
Wasn’t it rather imprudent to give Vladimir 
Hunyadi the entree to our house at all sorts of 
hours ? Perhaps I was dreaming when I heard 
him talk about the wife he had left behind in 
Hungary? That was in the early part of our 
acquaintance to be sure ; he didn’t mention her 
often afterward. The poor Magyar! I hope 
his grdjin was not very unforgiving when he 
went back to confess that he was half-ruined.” 

“ fie lost his money fairly,” Irving said, with- 
out lifting his eyes; “and he was an honest, 
hot-headed fool ; not a cool, pitiless devil, like 
this last friend of yours. I have heard enough 
about him, if you haven’t.” 

Her laugh was very musical ; but not alto- 
gether pleasant to hear. 

“ Lost his money fairly ; not a doubt of that : 
just as fairly as he would have lost his life, if he 
had stood opposite you a la barriere. It’s only 
just, skill should correct luck, you know. But, 
papa, that idea about ‘ this last friend of mine’ 
is quite impayable. Perhaps it was I who pro- 
posed that we should accept the first invitation 
to Kenlis, and proposed going there each time 
afterward, and started the idea of our wintering 
in town instead ef at Drumour ? It’s very odd. 

I have been laboring under the delusion it was 
just the other way. I suppose you have heard 
all those dreadful stories about Mr. Ramsay since 
you came to town, and they will continue to tor- 
ment you till— till next August, let us say ; and 
you have begun to ponder over them, since you 
found a better match for you at piquet. Con- 
fess now — isn’t it so ?” 

It was long since Irving had been so nearly 
on the verge of a vulgar outbreak of anger : his 
face grew actually paler in the effort he made to 
repress it. 

“ Insolence isn’t argument, you’ll find ; and 


whether you comprehend them or not, you’ll 
have to obey orders.” 

She answered gently, almost humbly ; yet 
there was no submission in her eyes. 

“I don’t mean to be insolent, or rebellious 
either ; but, papa, before you give your orders, 
wouldn’t it be as well we should understand each 
other? Surely it’s too soon — or too late — for 
us to quarrel. Have you forgotten the compact 
we made just a week after I came of age, when 
I signed away all — it was little enough, Heaven 
knows — that I had power over ! It was agreed 
then that I should be absolute mistress of my 
own actions thenceforth, and that I might spend 
my allowance and my time exactly as it seemed 
to me good. I didn’t ask for any thanks then, 
because I considered that I got an equivalent 
for what I gave. I bought my freedom with a 
price ; and it’s too much to expect me not to 
use my own, or to abandon it so soon.” 

Her father’s face had grown darker and darker. 

“And you expect me to sit smiling and blinks 
ing, while you walk straight to your shame? 
Curse your compacts ! They wouldn’t hoodwink 
a county bench or a Blankshire jury. Alice, you 
ought to know me b‘y this time : I’m not given 
to bluster. I’ll watch you both narrowly, and 
if I have reason to believe that Mark Ramsay ■ 
means foul play — whether you are his accomplice 
or not — I’ll give him no more chance than I 
would a mad dog at large. Now you can act 
as you please.” 

Her courage was beyond that which common- 
ly falls to the lot of woman, and in presence of 
physical, or purely personal, danger, many of 
the ruder sex might have envied her nerve ; but 
she grew a coward now, all in a moment. Yes, 
she knew her father only too well: she knew 
that in his delicate blue veins flowed the bitter 
Irving blood, which, even within her memory — 
to say nothing of worse deeds in the aforetime — 
had broken out to deadly effect. She knew that, 
when he had once passed the bounds of cool cal- 
culation, neither fear of God or man would turn 
him back from the work whereto his hand was 
set. It had always been so — in anger as in love 
— and would be so again. But she was too wise 
to show one sign of the terror that was master- 
ing her; and she looked straight into her fa- 
ther’s eyes — lifted now — smiling. 

“ We’re getting quite melodramatic. What 
a pity we have no audience ! But that tragic 
pose was unnecessary, papa. So you actually 
gave me credit for misplaced affection, and an 
unfortunate attachment, and all that sort of 
thing ? How very nice of you ! Now, isn’t it 
barely possible that I might flirt for a purpose 
of my own, instead of a purpose of yours ?” 

“I don’t see what you’re driving at,” he mut- 
tered, in a much more placable tone, though. 

“ Have you ever considered the position in 
which I should be placed at your death ? I have. 
To be sure, I’m the person most interested in the 
matter. I should be simply penniless — that’s 
all : for every acre of Drumour is entailed, and - 
if the cards ran ever so luckily, you would never 
leave a large balance at your banker’s. Wouldn’t 
it be a great satisfaction to you in your last mo- 
ments, papa, if you left me established for life at 
Kenlis Castle ? You needn’t lift your eyebrows 
so contemptuously : more improbable things have 
come to pass. Mark Ramsay would marry me 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


101 


to-morrow, if any thing happened to liis wife. 
And I doubt if hers is a good life — certainly not 
so good as mine.” 

Irving was fairly dazzled, for the moment, by 
the light that broke in upon him. He rose to* 
his feet with a long, low whistle ; and then sai4 
softly to himself, 

“The devil!” 

It was much as if a devout Catholic had 
crossed himself, invoking his patron saint — only 
different people have different ways of express-, 
ing surprise. 

“ And in the mean time — if there is a mean 
time” — he said, after a pause — “what do you 
mean to do ?” 

“ I mean to take very good care of myself,” 
she answered with a sauciness that became her 
infinitely — “just as I have done for the last 
seven years. Don’t you think I am still capable 
of it?” 

The father looked down upon the daughter 
with a benignity beautiful to behold — such as 
might light up the countenance of a pious parent 
gathering the first-fruits of good seed sown in 
early days. 

“Yes: I really think you can be trusted.” 

And he dropped a kiss of peace lightly on her 
forehead. 

“Now you’re sensible,” Alice remarked, “I 
don’t mind confiding to you that Mr. Alsager 
is to be there too this afternoon. There’s safety 
in numbers ; and, if lie’s not a very efficient 
chaperon, he can point out what I ought to ad- 
mire. ” 

Her father’s good-humor was not to be ruffled 
again. 

“You little plague, why couldn’t you say as 
much at first? You’d have had your lecture, 
though, some time or another ; so it don’t much 
matter. Well, be prudent, and don’t give the 
dowagers a chance; you are too handsome to 
be let off easily.” 

Irving went forth in unusually high spirits 
that day. He had done with moral scruples 
long ago ; yet the talons hid in the velvet paws 
would have sprung out none the less sharply to 
punish attaint of Alice’s good name. Making a 
jest of most things that good men believe in, he 
was specially apt to mock at the virtue of wom- 
ankind ; but in this one woman’s power to walk 
unscathed amongst snares and pitfalls, he had 
implicit belief. He was right — so far. 

In those last two syllables, is struck the key- 
note of many threnodies. If the sad old parable 
of the pitcher carried once too often to the well 
applies sometimes to those who never sleep or 
wake without whispering — “Lead us not into 
temptation,” how much more nearly ought it to 
touch those who — save for certain forms of out- 
ward observance — might as well have been born 
in Heathenesse ? Whether the vessel was once 
moulded in coarse delf, or tawdry china, or por- 
celain more precious than the ancient Myrrhine 
ware, matters but little, when there remains 
naught thereof but a heap of shards, unworthy 
a beggar’s gathering. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Days, and weeks, and months passed on, 
bringing little outward change to any of the 


chief actors of this story. The estrangement 
between Ramsay and his wife continued ; and at 
last even the world began to remark that those 
two were never, by any chance, seen together, 
except at some great dinner-party, or other sim- 
ilar ceremonial. 

Thejf were established, long ago, in a furnished 
house, adapted,” to quote the advertisement 

to the most luxurious requirements.” But the 
great reception-rooms were never used ; for Mrs. 
Ramsay’s excuse pf^‘ not feeling strong enough 
to entertaip otthlarge scale,” Was no false plea ; 
antfc Mark w r asm.ot-likely to suggest any arrange- 
'm<£»Lthjjt \vouTd v Vave Necessitated his presence 
at home. J Blhhclje nev&’ complained, or in any 
wiSe tphk her htr^ban^ to task for his neglect ; 
but/beyohd a certain<^bint, she would not dis- 
semble". fcong before The winter was over, she 
had ceased tgrjiffect anxiety to keep up an inti- 
macy with the* Irvings. She received them at 
her own house pretty frequently, and dined at 
theirs in return in due course ; and on these 
occasions — or the still rarer ones when they met 
on neutral ground — her manner was courteous, 
without a spark of cordiality. Once, and once 
only, she had expressed herself plainly on this 
subject. It happened thus. 

There was a private concert to be given, at 
which, besides other attractions, a famous canta- 
trice from La Scala was to appear for the first 
time in England. For one reason or another, 
invitations were exceedingly difficult to obtain ; 
and even to Mrs. Ramsay, popular as she was, 
only two were vouchsafed. By a very rare 
chance, Mark was lunching at home when these 
arrived. 

“The second one’s in blank, I see,” he ob- 
served, after glancing at the card. “ How do 
you mean to fill it up, Blanche ? It would be 
very good-natured of you if you were to take 
Alice.” 

Even before they left Ivenlis, he had begun 
to speak of her thus. 

“ Perhaps so,” his wife answered composedly ; 
“but I don’t feel particularly good-natured this 
morning; and Alice has so many opportunities 
of amusement of one sort or another, from what 
I hear, that I think she can afford to wait. Be- 
sides, I’ve settled to take Ida Jocelyn, if I take 
any one.” 

An evil change came over Ramsay’s face. It 
only lasted for a second, and its precise expres- 
sion could hardly have been defined. It was not 
so much anger as surprise, with perhaps a little 
aversion, and a tinge of vexation — as though 
he had whispered to himself : 

“ Tit vie lo pagherai.” 

But this was what he said aloud, and he said 
it smiling : 

“ Of course you’ll do exactly as you please ; 
mine was the merest suggestion, ^ou can’t ac- 
cuse me of interfering with your arrangements ; 
but I think you’re more good-natured than you 
take credit for, or you wouldn’t have gratified 
Mrs. Jocelyn. Next to her husband, she’s quite 
the greatest bore of our acquaintance.” 

He had risen as he spoke, and was sauntering 
out of the room, when Blanche called him back. 

“ Wait one moment, Mark. I have never ac- 
cused you of interfering, and you must do me the 
same justice. It’s just as well that you should 
understand that, if I hadn’t arranged to take Ida 


102 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY: OR. 


Jocelyn, I should not have taken Alice Irving. 
And, if at any time she should want a chaperone, 
she must not reckon on me. My reason is very 
simple — I don’t like her.” 

There was nothing in his face now but lazy 
astonishment. 

“Is it possible? I fancied you got on so 
capitally together. Now, I rather like her, as it 
happens. If we ever have a discussion, Blanche, 
1 hope it won’t arise from simple variety of taste. 
‘May difference of opinion ’ — I forget the rest of 
the toast or sentiment ; but it’s much to the same 
purpose. You needn’t stand too much on the 
defensive. I don’t think there’s much danger, in 
that quarter, of your being impressed into chape- 
ron-service.” 

And so Mark effected an orderly retreat — 
having certainly not got the worst of the light 
skirmish, though Blanche stood on the vantage- 
ground of one who, having been asked to grant a 
favor, has declined for good and sufficient cause. 
A bolder and wiser matron would doubtless have 
swooped down on the opportunity, for the which 
she had watched all the time she was circling so 
so tranquilly. But this gentle bird had never 
swooped on any thing rougher than a rose-branch 
and then with no direr intent than resting there 
awhile, or, at the very worst, pecking at a petal. 
If she had acted up to a stern sense of duty 
would it have fared better with her, then or 
thereafter ? For myself, I doubt it. At any 
rate, the opening — such as it was — was lost, and 
did not recur again for many a day. 

The Ramsays spent their Christmas at Brance- 
peth Castle : it was an engagement of some 
standing, and Mark could not avoid it with any 
good grace ; nor indeed, did he attempt to do so. 
La Reine, though she had many guests to attend 
to, found time to watch both husband and wife 
narrowly on the first evening of their stay. Her 
bright eyes grew misty once or twice, and her 
honest heart burned hotly within her, as she saw 
how fearfully those few weeks spent in town had 
told on the one, and how utterly indifferent the 
other was to the change. It was with great diffi- 
culty that she kept her anger in check, when her 
remark, “ How very pale and ill Blanche is look- 
ing !” was answered by, “Do you really think 
so ? I hadn’t noticed it. A little tired with the 
journey, perhaps.” 

“ Journey 1” 

That was all she said ; but the word was like 
a missile, and she fluttered her fan till the sticks 
crackled again. If it had been in the old times, 
when buffets were dealt by soft no less than by 
horny hands, I think there would have lighted 
on somebody’s cheek, just then, rather a sting- 
ing salute. 

Blanche herself owned that she felt weaker 
and duller lately ; but beyond this she could not 
be brought to confession, and Lady Laura had 
not the heart to press her. 

“It’s no good talking over one’s ailments, I 
know,” she said, “so we’ll drop the subject al- 
together ; and, while you’re here, we’ll suppose 
you ve nothing whatever the matter with you. 
You sha’n’t have a moment’s worry if I can help 
it ; and I mean to send you away in as rude 
health as it’s in your nature to be — as if you 
could be rude, if you tried.” 

These sanguine expectations were not exactly 
realized ; but Blanche’s state, both of body and 


mind, was doubtless improved by the fortnight’s 
respite. 

For that brief space she needed not to disquiet 
herself about Mark’s goings out and comings in. 
There was truce to the jealousies and disappoint- 
ments, not the less keenly felt because they re- 
curred so incessantly ; and she even fancied — it 
might have been only fancy, poor thing — that 
there was more of kindness in his manner. It 
was the palest image, at the best, of the old de- 
votion ; but is not even a shadow a relief on a 
dead blank wall ? 

Mark had never been very enthusiastic about 
field-sports ; however, he took to them now with 
a will, and was seldom to be found within doors 
when any thing was to be done afield with a gun, 
or in saddle. 

But twice or thrice he lounged into his wife’s 
apartment half an hour before dressing - time, 
and chatted to her about the day’s performance. 
La Reine always knew when this had happened 
by Blanche’s appearance when she came down to 
dinner ; and a comparative stranger remarked 
on one of these occasions, “ What a very vari- 
able face it is ! She looked so wan and worn 
at luncheon, and to-night she’s quite girlishly 
pretty.” But old Marlshire acquaintances shook 
their heads as they confided to each other, that 
they had always thought Mrs. Ramsay delicate. 
That clear white complexion often went with 
heart-disease ; and she seemed so strangely out 
of spirits too. 

One day, when the hounds met within easy 
distance, Blanche was driven to the meet by her 
hostess. Seyton of Warleigh was the Master 
now ; and, as soon as the phaeton appeared, he 
ranged up alongside to exchange greetings with 
its occupants. 

“Why, almost the last time I saw you out,” 
he said to Blanche — “ the very last, I do believe 
— was that famous Pinkerton day, when Ranks- 
borough and Vane had their swimming-match. 
Do you remember it, Mrs. Ramsay?” 

Her answer was not very distinct; and she 
drew down her veil, as Seyton turned away, to 
hide some foolish tears. Yes, she remembered 
it too well — how, just to pass the time, she co- 
quetted with Leo Armytage, and provoked Vere- 
kcr Vane’s jealous wrath ; and how — a little 
frightened, but scarcely repentant — she had 
watched him ride down headlong on the Swarle. 
Was it possible that she was the same Blanche 
Ellerslie who had played at cup-and-ball with 
men’s hearts ; feeling just an idle interest in the 
game, and a certain pride in her own skill? 
Something of this, though not in so many words, 
she hinted to her companion. That the com- 
parison had struck La Reine too was evident, 
though she endeavored to answer jestingly. 

“We have all grown older, and sadder, and 
wiser, of course. Why, the Scibreui' himself has 
got almost sober and staid ; and, as for Leo 
Armytage, it was only the other day I heard he 
was going to marry an alderman’s daughter with 
a fathomless cassette. One ranges one’s self, that’s 
all.” 

“ Don’t you think it’s possible to grow sadder 
without growing wiser?” Blanche asked. 

Lady Laura did not seem inclined to discuss 
metaphysics ; for, instead of answering, she 
dropped her hand to her ponies, which were be- 
ginning to fidget, and followed in the wake of 


103 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


the crowd toward the cover, into which the 
hounds had just been thrown. 

It was a coffee-house sort of a day, with a bad 
scent and short-running foxes; but excellently 
well suited for hunting on wheels. However, 
before lunch-time Mrs. Ramsay looked so tired 
and pale that La Reine turned back, and made 
the best of her way home. That same afternoon 
— almost for the first time in her life — Blanche 
had something unpleasantly like a fainting-fit. 
She rallied, however, quickly ; and made light 
of it to Mark when he came to inquire after her 
on his return — indeed, throughout the evening 
she seemed in rather better spirits than usual. 

One way or another, the fortnight passed only 
too quickly; but when it was over, Blanche 
would not hear of prolonging their visit. She 
knew that her choice lay betwixt accompanying 
her husband, and letting him return to town 
alone, and did not hesitate. And so began 
again for her the same wearing round of restless 
nights and unquiet days. 

“ I never,” said a sage matron in my hearing 
awhile ago, when the griefs of a mutual acquain- 
tance were being discussed — “ I never pity any 
one who is thoroughly inconsistent.” If you in- 
dorse this opinion — which, by the bye, I did not 
venture at the time to controvert — you will 
henceforth have little compassion to spare for 
Blanche Ramsay in her troubles. 

She had spoken, you may remember, with 
tolerable plainness concerning Alice Irving ; 
and — making every allowance for female muta- 
bility — it was scarce to be expected that, within 
a month, she would entreat that young person 
to sojourn as a guest beneath her roof. Under 
ordinary circumstances, the invitation would 
have been the most natural conceivable. 

Captain Irving was one of those inscrutable 
people who, having little or no ostensible busi- 
ness to occupy them, are constantly being sum- 
moned away on urgent private affairs. Early 
in the spring it appeared that his presence was 
needed at Paris — “ for a week or ten days” — he 
said vaguely : but it was evident that the term 
of absence would be elastic. Whilst it lasted, 
Alice must either keep house alone, or be com- 
mitted to the guardianship of the Aunt Caroline 
whom she disliked so cordially. That disinter- 
ested regard for the young lady’s comfort or 
convenience did not prompt Mrs. Ramsay’s 
strange offer — it was perfectly voluntary, re- 
member ; for Mark never hinted at such an idea 
— may fairly be assumed. The real reason lay 
somewhat deep below the surface. 

The instances are manifold, both in new and ; 
old times, of those who have been so goaded and 
worked upon by the consciousness of being men- 
aced by a vague danger or followed by an un- 
seen foe, that, instead of seeking any longer to 
escape, they have turned in their tracks, and 
gone to meet the mischief ; and this has been 
the desperation of cowardice, moral or physical, 
as a rule. 

Perhaps you have read that rattling ballad — 
one of Thornbury’s, if I mistake not — “The 
Cavalier’s Ride 

Tramp, tramp came on the heavy roan, 

Pat, pat the mettled gray ; 

Five miles of down to Salisbury town, 

And just an hour to day. 

The godless gallant had the heels of the Round- 


heads, and might have made good his escape 
without striking a blow ; but, says he — 

They pressed me hard, and my blood grew hot; 

So I made me ready to turn 

Just where whitest grew the May, 

Where thickest grew the fern. 

It was a merry bout, be sure — none the less 
merry that “Chestnut Kate ” carried her master 
safe and sound into Salisbury after all. But the 
sport is not quite so rare, when the hunted crea- 
ture comes to bay — not in anger or dare-devilry, 
but because the sharp swift agony that will end 
all seems easier to endure than the sickness of 
doubt and fear. 

The illustration may seem strangely inappli- 
cable to such “ genteel comedy ” as this has 
been hitherto; nevertheless, the parallel does 
not altogether fail. That there was a danger, 
and an enemy to boot, in the background, 
Blanche was right well aware. She had never 
yet questioned her husband as to where a single 
hour of his long absences was spent ; but if she 
had so questioned him, and he had answered tru- 
ly, perhaps she would have been brought not much 
nearer the mark than she was brought by her 
own fancy. She was sufficiently acquainted 
with Captain Irving's habits to be certain that 
during the afternoon Alice might almost safely 
reckon on going whither she would, or receiving 
whom she would : but in that “ almost ” there 
was a slight safeguard — miserably slight, to be 
sure ; yet the idea of its being removed was to 
Blanche simply intolerable. 

One thing must be clearly borne in mind : 
Mrs. Ramsay had never admitted to herself the 
possibility of their being actual guilt in her hus- 
band’s intimacy with Miss Irving. Though she 
had lived from girlhood upward in an atmo- 
sphere of coquetry, and, more or less, in a fast set, 
she had never been brought into contact with 
any thing much worse than folly ; and her suspi- 
cions travelled more slowly than those of the 
average of prudes. She thought that Alice was 
daily and hourly stealing from her larger por- 
tions of Mark’s love, or of the sentiment — no 
matter what — which she, Blanche, had been too 
glad to accept in love’s stead. This was all ; 
and it was more than enough to make her hate 
the beautiful marauder with all the bitterness of 
which her nature were capable. She had no 
brain for plotting or counterplotting ; but, with a 
certain shrewdness of reasoning, she told herself 
that, as her guest, Alice would be less a free 
agent than under her own father’s roof during 
his absence. Mark, however little he might 
respect his moral obligations, had a decided re- 
gard for his social ones ; and was likely to be 
more guarded in his demeanor under his own 
roof than under any other that could be named. 
It is not likely that any one of these reasons will 
exempt our unlucky heroine from the charge of 
inconsistency above mentioned ; but perhaps 
they may prevent this, her act and deed, from 
being set down as an insane vagary. 

The surprise that Alice could not conceal, when 
the invitation came, seemed not to be purely pleas- 
urable ; indeed, she pouted her lip at first, as if 
the horizon thus opened to her was not all rose- 
color. However, she had not a shadow of ex- 
cuse for declining it ; Captain Irving would not 
have listened for one moment to such a thing. 
It was the very arrangement for which he would 


104 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


have schemed ; and he could hardly believe in 
such good-luck as that his opponent — for in this 
light he had begun to consider Mrs. Ramsay 
of late — should play directly into his hand. It 
was one of his favorite maxims, that it mattered 
little what a husband or wife did, so that the 
other pj|rty to the marriage- contract took no 
overt exception to the proceedings. 

“ I shall go to Baris now with a quiet con- 
science,” he said to his daughter — as if he and 
his conscience had not come to terms a quarter 
of a century ago. And she answered : 

“Well, there’s some comfort in that, at all 
events, ” with equal gravity. 

Those two were so used to their masks that 
even when alone, they did not often lay them 
aside. 

Mark heard of the arrangement with much 
outward indifference. 

“It is very benevolent of you,” he remarked to 
his wife. “ I suppose you’ve thought better of 
what you said the other day. You needn’t take 
her out more than you like, you know — particu- 
larly if it tires you.” Blanche was really glad that 
he did not thank her. She felt that she deserved 
thanks so little, that she could hardly have lis- 
tened to them without a disclaimer. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A wild spring morning, with promise of worse 
weather yet, in the keen wind-gusts and fierce 
rain-swirls — a morning utterly abominable to 
those who are forced on their own or on others’ 
business to be abroad ; and yet not without its 
merits to such as are permitted 

Partem solido demere de die, 

at their own fireside in idleness, or in pretence at 
industry. So thought Yere Alsager, as — after 
dallying with a late breakfast, and skimming 
two or three papers — he lounged in the same 
chair that he occupied on the eve of Blanche’s 
marriage ; watching the smoke curl from his pipe 
with half-shut eyes, whilst he debated whether 
he was equal to the labor of putting a few finish- 
ing-touches to a crayon-sketch, to be matured 
some day into an oil-painting, if the Fates pleased. 

A ring at the outer-bell made him turn his 
heard, murmuring : “ A dun, I suppose. He 
almost deserves to be paid for venturing out in 
such weather ; but his pluck is likely to be its 
own reward, I’m afraid. I hope he" won’t give 
me the trouble of explaining so much to him.” 

However, when the door opened, it was no 
commercial face that appeared. Yere nodded 
lazily to the new-comer. 

“Why, Mark, what brings you out so early? 
You haven’t become a man of business all of a 
sudden, have you ? And you wouldn’t have come 
far out of your way simply for the pleasure of my 
valuable society.” 

“I don’t know about that,” the other an- 
swered, as he settled himself into another arm- 
chair. “ You are as good company as any body 
else, when you take the trouble to talk ; and al- 
most any company, in such infernal weather, is 
better than one’s own. I suppose I had some- 
thing to say to you, though, when I came out, if 
I could only remember what it was.” 


“ Don’t hurry yourself,” the other said rathet 
dryly. “It will come, I dare sav.” 

And for at least five minutes the two smoked 
on in silence. 

“ What are you going to do this afternoon ?” 
Mark asked at last. 

“ Well I hardly know. It’s as likely as not 
that I sha’n’t stir out at all till after dark. I’ve 
rather a drawing fit on me — at least it was de- 
veloping itself when you rang. It’s a bad light, 
to be sure, but that don’t matter so much for 
crayons.” 

Ramsay bent his brows. 

‘ ‘ Not going out till dark ? That’s unlucky.” 

“ Why unlucky ?” Vere inquired. “ Did you 
want me to go anywhere ? Well, the symptoms 
of industry are not very pronounced : I dare say 
I can manage it.” 

“I didn’t want you to go anywhere in partic- 
ular,” the other answered ; “but I wanted you 
to be anywhere but here for about a couple of 
hours this afternoon. I promised to bring some 
one to look at the carvings, and the things I 
brought from Italy, and all the rest of it.” 

Still with his eyes half shut, Alsager smoked 
on. 

“Miss Irving, of course,” he said, after a mo- 
ment or two. “ Ah, I shouldn’t wonder if she 
is a pretty good judge of Italian art ; and you 
are perfectly well qualified to play the cicerone. 
But whether I’m exactly fitted for the part you 
want me to play, is another question.” 

Mark appeared to think the first suggestion not 
worth answering, the inference was too self-evi- 
dent ; but to the second he was forced to reply. 

“What are you dreaming about, Yere ? I nev- 
er asked you to play any part, as you call it. I 
promised to show Alice my old quarters and I 
thought it would be pleasanter tete-a-tete than en 
tiers. I couldn’t guess you would be so wedded 
to your chimney-corner on this particular day.” 

Alsager’s eyes were opened now ; and he faced 
half-round on the speaker. 

“They are your quarters still. Don’t sup- 
pose I dispute for a moment your right to go in 
and out and dispose of them as you please ; but 
as for disposing of me — Look here, Mark, we’ll 
play with cards on the table. I’ll go out this aft- 
ernoon ; for, of course, I have no more right to 
keep you out of these rooms than to take up your 
library at Ivenlis. It’s as well we should under- 
stand each other, for the future. It’s clear you’ve 
been counting on me to help you in this affair ; 
and, last year, you would not have been far out of 
your reckoning — but I’m not so sure about it now. 
You are going to remind me of what passed here 
the night before you were married. Yon needn’t. 

I remember it all perfectly well — better than you 
do perhaps. When I fancied it was impossible 
you could ever want, these chambers again, you 
said, * Highly improbable, certainly ; but as for 
impossible, its too big a word for my dictionary.’ 

It was a fair warning, I don’t deny ; and I don’t 
pretend to be taken by surprise now — or that I 
have not been expecting this, or something like 
this for weeks past : but I don’t seem to like it a 
bit better for that.” 

Ramsay returned the other’s steady gaze with 
interest. 

“You have scruples, then ? I confess I wasn’t 
prepared for this.” 

“ 1 suppose you were,” the other retort- 


105 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


ed coolly. “ It’s not a question of scruples, as it 
happens; but simply of taste — or of whim, if 
you like. I dare say there were few pleasanter 
persons in Troy than Pandarus — somehow, 
though, I don’t think I should have appreciated 
him, unless I had been in love with Cressida 
— and I dare say the led-captain’s isn’t half a 
bad business when you get use to it. I wasn’t 
broken in young enough, you see. You’ll have 
to look out for some one else to be your house- 
steward here, Mark. The present" man isn’t 
strong enough for the place, that’s the long and 
short of it ; and he’ll clear out at once without 
a month’s warning.” 

Whatever Ramsay may have felt, he certainly 
kept his temper admirably. 

“There’s no necessity for heroics,” he said, 
“ or for unsavory comparisons either. I offered 
you these quarters without condition; and, if 
they have been any use to you, you are just as 
welcome, up to this moment, as if you were 
ready to help me with your whole heart and 
soul. There’s no need for you to clear out so 
suddenly. If I want these chambers, I’ll tell 
you so — without the slightest ceremony — you may 
depend upon it. We needn’t make a quarrel of 
it, unless by your particular desire ; but I should 
like you to answer me one thing, just for curi- 
osity’s sake. We’ll suppose that scruples have 
nothing to do with your squeamishness — you 
quite misunderstood the help I wanted of you ; 
never mind that — but I’m certain you are think- 
ing of somebody else besides yourself in all this. 
Who is it ?” 

There were few redeeming points in the char- 
acter of either of those two. Yet both were en- 
dowed, almost equally, with a straightforward- 
ness of speech and action — attributable, probably, 
to constitutional intrepidit}’ — which saved them 
from descending to vulgar shifts and subterfuges. 
Alsager was not a whit disconcerted by the point- 
blank question, though he pondered for a sec- 
ond or two before he made answer. 

“ You’re quite right. I am thinking of some 
one else — of the only person, perhaps, that is 
really worth consideration. I am thinking of 
Mrs. Ramsay.” 

Neither did Mark blench before the riposte 
that would have staggered most men; but his 
tone — albeit still not provocative — was just a lit- 
tle sneering. 

‘ ‘ You do Mrs. Ramsay infinite honor. I dare 
say, if she knew who was her champion, she 
would be almost as much surprised as — her un- 
worthy husband. May I ask you one more 
question ? Since when, have you felt this voca- 
tion to succor the distressed and rescue the inno- 
cent ?” 

• Alsager’s lip, too, began to curl. 

“If you mean by ‘the innocent’ — Alice Ir- 
ving, you may make your mind quite easy there. 

I assure you that I don’t take the faintest inter- 
est in her welfare, and I would not lift my fin- 
ger to warn her. If you want to know when I 
began to pity your wife — to pity her so much, 
that I will have neither art or part in working 
out more sorrow for her — I’ll tell you. It was 
since it became quite plain to me that she was 
dying by inches. That’s about two months ago.” 

A curious expression — or, rather, a medley of 
expressions — possessed Mark’s face. There was 
surprise, and a certain vexation? like that of a 


man suddenly made aware that others are cog- 
nizant of a secret he would rather have kept to 
himself ; but Alsager always thought afterward, 
that there mingled with this a cruel, eager sat- 
isfaction. 

“ Dying?” he said almost in a whisper. “ You 
must be dreaming. Why, I’ve never heard her 
complain once ; and I don’t believe she’s ever 
seen a doctor since we came to town.” 

“ She’s not of the complaining sort,” the oth- 
er answered, with his low laugh ; “ and I doubt 
if all the drugs of the Pharmacy would do her 
much good ; unless they made her sleep. But 
I believe that others have seen it, besides me ; 
and that she knows it herself. See now, Mark 
— I’m not giving to whining, and it sounds too 
absurd for me to be preaching to you ; but I do 
think it’s d — d hard on her, that she should not 
have had one year’s grace before she was knock- 
ed out of time. You wanted an ornament for 
your table — that was all right enough ; but why 
on earth could not you have picked out one that 
would stand careless handling, and wouldn’t break 
when you tossed it aside ? Poor little woman ! 
It seems only yesterday that we were out driv- 
ing on the hill, and she asked me if I thought 
she made you thoroughly happy ; and, by way 
of answer, I told her what you had said about 
Polvcrates’s ring. It wasn’t a lie then — at least, 
I suppose it wasn’t.” 

“ And why should it be a lie— now ?” the oth- 
er said doggedly. “You don’t suppose I wish 
‘ the poor little woman’ — as you call her — any 
harm. No; it’s not come to that yet: though 
it’s quite clear that I made a mistake, and took 
my leap in the dark just six months too soon. 
We’re playing cards on the table, to be sure ; 
but you would read my hand if I didn’t show it. 
I don’t mind confessing that I’m fairly bewitch- 
ed — bewitched as I’ve never been since I was 
twenty. Alice is not the least like any woman 
I have ever met. She seems perfectly reckless 
at times ; and yet I don’t believe that any man 
living would tempt her to go an inch over the 
line she has drawn. Perhaps that’s why she can 
make me do pretty well as she likes, already. I 
don’t know what will come of it.” 

“ Your being in a hurry was not the only mis- 
take,” Alsager observed. “According to your 
own account, you thought of marriage in the first 
instance as a political necessity. You had much 
better have kept it on that footing. When pri- 
vate feelings are mixed up with reasons of state, 
there’s certain to be a complication. Why the 
devil did you take so much trouble to win your 
wife’s heart. That you did take the trouble is 
quite clear : she’s not one of the gushing crea- 
tures that would give theirs to the first comer. 
If you had taken things coolly from the first, I 
dare say she’d have accepted mutual freedom 
quite pleasantly. It’s impossible now. You 
don’t know what will come of it— neither do I. 

I believe it’s a presentiment, as much as any 
thing else, that makes me so loth to meddle with 
the whole business. Do you remember when 
we first talked about her my wondering whether 
that girl had ever been the heroine of a sensa- 
tion story ? She will be yet, and of a bitter bad 
one, too.” 

On a certain summer afternoon long ago — it 
was in old Oxford days — I was riding with two 
others along the skirts ofWychwood Forest, not 


106 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


disforested then, and we came suddenly on a 
gipsy encampment. The Zingara who accosted 
us in passing was no withered beldame ; but a 
“nut-brown maid,” — a noted beauty, as we aft- 
erward heard, among the Romany Rye. None 
had the heart to refuse the piece of crossing-sil- 
ver ; and our fortunes were told one by one. 
Two of us were prophesied unto in terms little 
varying from the usual trade jargon, and prom- 
ised our fair ladies, and warned against our dark 
rivals, in due course. It is unnecessary to say 
that both promise and warning impressed us in- 
finitely at the time, and have profited us materi- 
ally since. But over the third hand, the sibyl 
pondered much more attentively. It may be 
that her seeming reluctance to speak was a mere 
trick of the craft ; but I did not suspect this at 
the time, — and I suspect it still less now. She 
must have been a rare natural actress, if the 
wistful, almost pitiful, look in her eyes was sim- 
ulated ; and her voice, too, seemed to have lost 
much of the traditional whine. 

‘ ‘ My pretty gentleman ” — he was a very pretty 
gentleman, poor fellow, in those days — “you 
mustn’t be angry with the poor gipsy, if she talks 
as the Fates bid her : and wiser than me make 
mistakes sometimes — though not so often as you 
think. You’ll have your heart’s wish often, and 
you’ll make others’ hearts ache, for sure ; and, for 
all you are freehanded, you’ll never want for silver 
or for gold. But, my pretty gentleman, the line 
of life’s crossed deep and early — just for all the 
world like mine is — and them that have that 
cross don’t often wear gray hairs, or die in their 
beds. You won’t slight the poor gipsy’s warning, 
because she can’t speak to tin place nor the hour. 
You have a bold spirit of your own, and a strong 
hand, and a sharp eye ; but, for all that, don’t 
ye ride too far or too fast.” 

She fell back, and let us pass without another 
word. And I, looking into Nigel Kenward’s 
face, saw a sickly change come over it — though, 
when we were out of the gipsy’s hearing, he 
laughed out loud. 

“ I got my money’s worth, didn’t I ?” he said 
in his gay rollicking tone, “ and a little more 
than I bargained for. Devilish odd things are 
coincidences. She could not have guessed that 
I’ve dreamed, at least twice every year since I 
could remember, that I had broken my neck in 
a ‘crumpler.’ If her words come true, and 
either of you fellows meet her again afterward, 
stand her a sovereign for my sake — she deserves 
it for the shot.” 

Now this man was absolutely ignorant of the 
meaning of fear. In those days, not a few rode 
with more courage than judgment ; but his 
dreams did not prevent him from astonishing the 
rashest of us at times, when he was getting a 
beaten horse over a stiff country. When his 
countenance changed, as I have described, it had 
certainly nothing to do with nerves : it was 
rather the natural surprise of one who hears a 
feeling, hitherto confined to his own breast, sud- 
denly interpreted aloud. 

The gipsy’s prophecy was fulfilled, almost to 
the letter. Assuredly, more hearts than ono 
were set aching, when, five years later, we read 
in the Homeward Mai/, that Nigel Kcnward had 
been picked up stone-dead, after a terrible fall 
into a nullah. 

The present was a somewhat parallel case. 


You may remember that, insouciant fatalist as he 
was, Mark Ramsay had long been haunted by 
an impression that retributive justice would ono 
day, in some shape or other, overtake him. This 
had never diverted him a hair’s-breath from any 
one of his purposes ; nor was it likely to do so 
now. Nevertheless, he scarcely repressed astart, 
when Alsager’s random words set the chord of 
that sombre fancy vibrating. He answered in 
a very grave, gentle voice, without a symptom of 
resentment at the other’s plain speaking. 

“ It’s more than likely you’re right ; but it’s 
too late now to draw back — and I wouldn’t if I 
could. We must ‘ dree our weird,’ as the auld 
wives say. But I don’t wonder at your wishing 
to stand aloof — or blame you either; and I don’t 
bear malice for what you’ve said to-day. You 
needn’t trouble yourself to go out this afternoon, 
Vere. On s'arrangerci. Good-bye for the pres- 
ent. You can meet Mrs. Ramsay with a clear 
conscience at all events.” 

“ A clear conscience,” Alsager mused, rather 
discontentedly, when he was alone. “I wasn’t 
aware that I had a conscience till quite lately ; 
and I don’t know that I’m enchanted by the dis- 
covery. I wonder if the weather has any thing 
to do with these sudden accesses of virtue? I 
suppose I shall be found preaching at street- 
corners next, or lecturing Young Men’s Associ- 
ations on continence. There’s no knowing what 
one may come to in his old age. I’ve probably 
done rather more harm than good this morning 
— that’s a satisfactory reflection. Saint Mark be- 
haved better than I expected, certainly ; though 
there was a queer look in his eyes when I talk- 
ed about his wife’s dying. Dying? So she is. 
There’s not a doubt about it. I’m by no means 
certain it isn’t the very best thing that can hap- 
pen to her. On the whole, I think I’d better 
look out for fresh quarters. It’s a bore, too, 
for these suit me down to the ground ; but I 
can’t stand living even rent-free on sufferance, 
or — what’s nearer the truth — on false pretences.’ 

o 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

It is spring again — not spring only by the 
calendar, but spring in real earnest ; with a 
broad blue in the sky, and westerly softness in 
the wind. There is shade now under the trees 
lining the Row ; and the shade is not unwel- 
come for an hour before, and after, noon. All 
the world — according to the Court Newsman’s 
definition of the term — is settled in town for the 
season ; and in the long catalogue might be 
found almost every name that has hitherto fig- 
ured in this story. 

Major Gauntlet and his fellows in Commir-, 
sion were perfuncti officio at last ; and had laid 
before the War Office the grapes gathered in 
Canaan. On the very night of his arrival, Os- 
wald found himself — as you may suppose — in 
the smoking-room of the Bellona* 

In the pre-Stephensonian era, when cosy hos- 
telries were to be found all along the King’s 
highway, there lived an eccentric noble, who 
was so fond of sojourning in such places, that, 
when travelling home to the seat of his ances- 
tors, he invariably slept at an inn within three 
leagues of his own park -gate. “They are al- 
ways glad to see me there” he used to say. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


.Now, without taking quite such a melancholy 
view of things, it may fairly be presumed that 
a man of average popularity, returning after a 
prolonged absence, is likely to meet with quite 
as warm a welcome at his club as he can reckon 
on elsewhere. Gauntlet’s popularity was much 
above the average. He was rather a don in 
some respects, it is true ; and possessed a knack 
of utterly ignoring the opinion, if not the pres- 
ence, of confident subalterns, which was discon- 
certing, to say the least of it. But he had a 
frank, free way with him which prevented even 
these repressed persons from taking more than 
momentary umbrage ; and, if he did not carry 
his honors very meekly, his self-assertion never 
trenched upon the swagger. So there was a 
kind of stir in the smoking-room, when his taw- 
ny mustache came floating through the door- 
way ; and he had so many greetings to answer, 
that it was a good half-hour before he got into 
his favorite corner with a quartette of familiars. 

“Well, what’s the last news?” Oswald in- 
quired, as soon as they were thoroughly settled. 
“Meriton, suppose you give a short summary 
for the benefit of the stranger.” 

The man he addressed was a grizzled old ar- 
tillery-surgeon — slow, but untiring of speech — 
who was always a safe draw for the latest intel- 
ligence. 

“ There’s nothing to epitomize,” he answered 
after a little consideration ; “or next to noth- 
ing. The land is barren, or else it’s a back- 
ward season. I suppose you’ve heard that Hel- 
vellyn went, over the Liverpool — he’s been going 
any time these six months — and Carlyon’s wife 
has bolted with a Frenchman. She's been go- 
ing any time these six years. I don’t believe 
there’s any thing else that you won’t have read 
in Galif/nani ; but every body you know is in town, 
so you’ll be well posted before long. By-the-by, 
I saw a very old friend of yours only yesterday 
— Mrs. Ramsay.” 

A huge puff of smoke almost hid Oswald 
Gauntlet, as he replied : 

“ You saw Mrs. Ramsay yesterday. And how 
was she looking ?” 

“ Looking devilish ill,” was the reply. “ Gad ! 
I almost doubt if you would recognize her. If 
her carriage had been on the move, instead of in 
a block, and if I hadn’t remembered the horses, 
I think I should have passed her : I wouldn’t 
have done that on any account. I’ve known 
her since she was a child ; and what a pretty 
child she was — what a pretty woman too, for 
the matter of that. You’d hardly give her credit 
for it now.” 

The three others who sat listening were rough- 
and-ready soldiers — not endowed with any spe- 
cial tact or delicacy — but each and everyone of 
them chose to look anywhere but into Gauntlet’s 
face just then. Yet his voice was quite steady. 

“ I am very sorry for this. Do you think she 
is as ill as she looks?” 

“Worse,” Meriton answered sententiously. 
“ The voice is quite as much a symptom as the 
pulse sometimes. There was never much of a 
ring in hers ; but I never heard it weak and 
hollow till yesterday. That’s a rank bad sign. 
I’d half a mind to ask her if she’d let me call 
and look after her, just for old acquaintance’ 
sake — I prescribed for her when she was a baby 
— but somehow I boggled over the tvords. The 


fact was, I felt sure that neither I nor all the 
doctors in London would do her much good. 
It’s mind more than body that’s ailing, unless 
I’m much mistaken ; that’s how it began at all 
events: and these atrophies — we’re bound to 
call them by a professional name — beat the best 
of us.” 

“ What makes you think so ?” 

The other lowered his voice a little ; though 
with the buzz of talk going on all round, he was 
not likely to be overheard. 

“ Well — I only speak on conjecture, mind — 
I don’t think that she made a wise choice in her 
second husband. Nobody ever supposed that 
she was in love with poor old Ellerslie ; but if 
she was not happy, it wasn’t his fault, God knows; 
and I believe she was happy in a quiet sort of 
way. Now, if all tales are true — they’re only 
vague rumors as yet — she docs love this one, 
and gets very little thanks for it.” 

We need not inquire too curiously into the 
meaning of two short syllables that were scarcely 
smothered in Gauntlet’s ponderous mustache ; 
but I fear they were set down, broad and black, 
by a certain Recorder ; and I fear, moreover, 
that each of the four listeners said Amen to the 
evil litany. 

That the spirit of partisanship should have 
shown itself so strong in a place where, if con- 
jugal differences were ever discussed, the sym- 
pathy would generally be found on the marital 
side, will not appear so wonderful when we re- 
member that Blanche’s surroundings — almost 
literally, from her cradle up to very latch- — had 
been more or less military. Her father and her 
husband, though both martinets in matters of 
discipline, were well liked by their comrades and 
subalterns ; and in both homes her gentle and 
graceful influence had been appreciated — some- 
what too thoroughly appreciated occasionally — 
by all those who came to eat or to drink or to 
flirt there. But if those honest fellows carried 
away a heartache, they took the fault — rightly or 
wrongly — to themselves, and bore no malice to 
the fair cause thereof in after-days. Even Harry 
Armar, you will remember, when he lay a-dying, 
said, “God bless her.” Truly, I think that, if 
the present question had come on for judgment 
before a jury picked at random out of the Bel- 
lona, it would have gone somewhat hard with 
Mark Ramsay. 

“Yes, it’s a hard case,” Meriton went on, 
without noticing the savage interjection, “cruelly 
hard, if it is as I fear. I don’t know much about 
these things ; for I haven’t got tired of my own 
wife yet, and it’s close upon our Silver Wedding. 
But I should have thought that a man, ever so 
hlasg and bad, might have lived with that nice 
little thing, for just one year, without wearying 
of her — and showing it. There — it don’t beat- 
talking of. Let’s change the subject.” 

Gauntlet seemed to be of the same opinion ; 
for he made no effort to prolong the topic, and 
the chat thenceforth became general ; but when 
Meriton, who kept regular hours, rose to go, 
Oswald rose also. 

“Dll walk with you,” he said. “You are inmy 
lino home, and I feel sleepy after my journey.” 

When they were in the street, Oswald put his 
arm into his companion’s, and slackened his paco 
into a saunter. 

“Meriton,” he said, and his voice was not 


108 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


quite so steady now, “you and I have known 
one another for a good number of years; and it 
isn’t likely I should flatter you at this time of 
day : but there are one or two points — not pro- 
fessional, mind — on which I’d rather take your 
opinion than that of any lawyer or parson. I 
want to ask you a couple of questions now. The 
first is — Have any of those vague reports, that 
you spoke about, coupled Mark Ramsay’s name 
with any woman’s except his wife?” 

“It’s really as I said,” the other answered. 
“There has been no definite scandal; but they 
are very intimate with some Irvings — county 
neighbors, I believe. Indeed, the daughter was 
actually staying with the Ramsays a little while 
ago, if she’s not there still ; and that same daugh- 
ter is remarkably handsome — quite dangerously 
so — there’s no doubt about it. But it’s hardly 
charitable to jump at conclusions.” 

“Charitable!” the other returned savagely; 
“ we need’t trouble ourselves about charity when 
we’re discussing Mark Ramsay. Well, you have 
answered me one question ; now answer me an- 
other. Look here, doctor : .you know pretty well 
how it has been with Blanche and me. You 
know, or ought to know, that I would have tried 
to make her my wife long ago if I hadn’t been 
next door to a beggar. I didn’t like to be a 
pensioner, even upon her. Whether she would 
ever have said ‘Yes ’is another matter — I never 
asked her. But there’s something perhaps you 
don’t know. I’m not a saint, and I’m not half 
as fit to die, as I ought to be : but, if I’d only 
got an hour to live, there’s not a word that I 
ever spoke to her I’d wish unsaid — that’s true, 
before God. But I don’t know how long that 
would last, if I saw her often — as you saw her 
yesterday. And so I am come to my second 
question — Do you advise me to go and call there, 
or not ?” 

In cases of conscience, John Meriton, if not 
an exceeding wise, was a very upright judge ; 
and, whether he had to decide for himself or for 
others, he laid down the law according to his 
light, without fear or favor. He pondered a 
while now before he answered ; and, when he 
did so, it was hesitatingly. 

“Yes ; I think, if I were you, I should call. 
She needs all the strengthening that can bo given 
her, poor thing ; and perhaps the sight of a kind, 
honest face would be a better cordial than any I 
could prescribe. And yours would be an honest 
one, Gauntlet — honest to the end. I am inclined 
to trust you more than you seem to trust yourself. 
I don’t say that there won’t be temptation ; and I 
don’t say that many men we call devilish good 
fellows wouldn’t drop to it : but I do say that, if 
I thought you’d ever try to make things worse 
there (and, bad as they are, they might be worse) 
I’d never touch your hand again — unless it were 
to feel your pulse ; and then I’d make pretty sure 
first that you weren’t malingering.” 

“ Thanks.” 

That small word in Oswald’s lips meant a good 
deal. Beyond a “ Good-night,” they exchanged 
no other. 

Les pciuvres esprits se rencontrent sometimes, as 
well as the finer ones. There could not possi- 
bly be any collusion between the two ; and, as 
they were then a mile apart, even mesmeric af- 
finity of thought could have nothing to do with 
it. Yet you will observe, that Meriton’s antici- 


j pations coincided curiously with those that 
Blanche had indulged in when she resolved on 
sending her note to the Bellona. 

The next morning was so soft and sunny, that 
Gauntlet thought it not unlikely he would find 
Mrs. Ramsay in the double rank of sitters lining 
the Row. Though he was not the least appre- 
hensive of a scene, he would somehow have pre- 
ferred their first meeting should take place un- 
der the public eye. He saw scores of fair famil- 
iar faces, but not the one he was in search of; 
and on more than one of these there was a light 
of welcome in which many men would have been 
tempted to bask for a while. But Oswald was 
in an ungrateful, not to say ungracious, mood 
just now ; and few of his acquaintance got more 
from him than a word or two in passing. As 
he was leaving the Park, after a couple of turns 
to and fro, he came upon a group on the skirts 
of the crowd, that, if he had felt no special in- 
terest in either of the two persons composing it, 
would probably have attracted his notice. In- 
deed, the face and figure of the lady would have 
attracted attention anywhere ; and her dress, in 
a quiet style, was absolutely perfect. Who she 
was you may easily divine, and also who was 
her cavalier. Gauntlet’s glance scarcely rested 
on the pair for a second ; but in that second he 
amply realized the dangerous beauty of which 
Meriton had spoken. There was nothing em- 
press^ in Mark’s demeanor as he leaned against 
the rail immediately behind Miss Irving’s chair, 
dropping a careless remark occasionally. But 
that very carelessness would to some people have 
conveyed an idea of security, and so Oswald in- 
terpreted it. The two men exchanged nods — 
they were very slightly acquainted — and rather 
an odd smile flickered on Ramsay’s lip, as he 
bent down to whisper something to Alice which 
made her look up quickly. Oswald guessed at 
once that he was the subject of the whisper ; and 
partly, too, guessed its import. As you may 
suppose, his feeling toward the speaker did not 
grow more charitable. 

From the Park to the square where the Ram- 
says were residing, was but a stone’s-throw ; and 
he found himself at their door before he had 
time for further reflection. 

When her visitor was announced, Blanche rose 
up from the couch on which she was lying with 
a little startled cry. As she stood upon her feet, 
Oswald fancied — it might have been only fancy, 
of course — that he saw her totter. But there 
could be no question whether the surprise was an 
agreeable one or not ; for there was a flush of 
pleasure on her face, such as had not been seen 
there for many a day. Whilst that flush lasted, 
she looked so like her old self that Gauntlet was 
half inclined to laugh at Meriton’s dismal fore- 
bodings ; but when it vanished — and it did so 
vanish, even whilst he held her hand— her pallor 
grew even more remarkable ; the snow never looks 
so deathly white, as instantly after the Alpen- 
gluth has faded. 

“ I thought you were never coming back,” she 
said, as she sank down wearily on the couch 
again. “ When did you return ?” 

< “Only Inst night; so you see I have lost no 
time in finding you out.” 

The effort that it cost him to speak those few 
words cheerfully, none but those who have put 
the like force on themselves would understand.- 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


109 


for his big heart waxed faint within him, as he 
looked on the ruin that the last few months had 
made. No need to ask, how it had been wrought 
— he knew that right well. 

“ How good of you to come so soon, when you 
must have so many things to do, and so many 
people to see ! And to come unasked too — that’s 
best of all.” 

“Well, perhaps I ought to have waited for 
an invitation,” he said, with a poor attempt at 
a laugh ; “ but we’re too old friends to stand on 
ceremony ; and there’s no one I want particu- 
larly to see — unless it is at the War Office. I 
must report myself this afternoon. Never mind 
my affairs though : they will keep. I want you 
to talk about yourself. I am afraid you have 
not been well lately, from what Meriton told me.” 

“ The dear old doctor ! Yes, I saw him 
yesterday, and I meant to have asked him if he 
had heard any thing of you lately ; but he went 
oft in such a hurry, that I hadn’t time. So he 
thought I was looking ill ? Well, I can hardly 
tell you what has been the matter with me. I 
never was very strong, you know ; but I seem 
to have gone down-hill very fast lately ; and I 
don’t feel as it it was in me to climb up again.” 

“Don’t be so absurd. You have no business 
with such ideas at your time of life. Now, I 
dare say you have had no advice all this time. 
It’s just like you : you never would take common 
care of yourself.” 

He spoke almost angrily ; but Blanche was 
not deceived for an instant as to the feelings 
masked by the roughness of speech. 

“It seems like old times, when you begin to 
scold me. No : I confess I have seen no doc- 
tor. I felt so perfectly sure it would be waste of 
time and trouble.” 

The very echo of Meriton’s words. No won- 
der, if they sounded in Gauntlet’s ears like the 
strokes of a funeral bell. 

“But you will have advice now— if it’s only 
because I ask you so very earnestly?” 

-“Don’t look so piteous about it,” she said, 
with a faint smile. “ You haven’t asked a favor 
from me for such ages, that I am bound to grant 
you this one. There : I’ll see any doctor that 
you like to send here, and I’ll promise to do as 
he bids me. Are you satisfied now ?” 

He took her hand — it lay as light as a snow- 
flake in his broad, brown palm — and pressed it 
by way of answer. 

“ Do you mean to give any account of your- 
self?” Blanche asked, when the silence was be- 
coming awkward. “You must have travelled 
over half Europe, judging from the time you 
have been away.” 

“ Over most of it, certainly ; but there’s very 
little to tell. You would not care for a lecture 
on fortification, I suppose. I saw three or four 
reviews, to be sure — especially at Berlin and 
Vienna— that the poor old general would have 
revelled in, and that I think would have amused 
you.” 

“ That was the business part : I want to hear 
about the amusements. You don’t mean me to 
infer that it was all work and no play ? Is the 
Viennese waltzing as wonderful as it is report- 
ed ? You must have appreciated that , at all 
events.” 

“It’s very good, but nothing miraculous, so 
far as I saw. I can’t speak from absolute ex- 


perience ; for — you will hardly believe me, I 
dare say — I haven’t had a single spin of any sort 
since I saw you last.” 

“I can hardly believe you,” Blanche said, 
with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “ Fancy 
you as a wallflower ! Why, in the old times, 
you used to think nothing of going a hundred 
miles to a ball.” 

“ Ah ! but it was in the old times, you see; 
that makes all the difference. One must draw 
the line of levity somewhere ; and I drew mine 
when I was elected to the Emeritan. I believe, 
if any member of the club were to be found in- 
dulging in a round dance, it would be a case for 
the committee at once.” 

She looked at him, still with that same faint 
smile, and once again she read him thoroughly. 
She guessed quite well what had kept his arm 
from encircling any woman’s waist during all 
those months ; and why it was just possible that 
Oswald Gauntlet never would breathe partner 
more. Long as she had known, and well as she 
had liked him, she had never till this moment 
rightly appraised the value of the heart she had 
put aside — for what ? Even now there was not 
within Blanche Ramsay a spark of what we, who 
are of the earth, earthy, call love. Neverthe- 
less, she felt half inclined, just then, to lay her 
head down on the brave, broad breast, and sob 
herself to sleep, as she had done when she was 
a small spoiled child. 

Very absurd — was it not — that she should be 
moved by so slight a sacrifice ? 

Life is real, life is earnest, 

as the poet very properly sings ; and thoughts 
ought not to be wasted on treading of measures 
or twanging of viols. But we are as God made 
us, and as the world has left us, after all — not 
a whit better, or wiser, or stronger; and, with 
many of us, such trifles as these go far to complete 
the sum of weal or woe. 

It is unnecessary to remark, that Mrs. Ram- 
say did not commit herself so ridiculously. On 
the contrary, she was sensible enough to turn 
the conversation immediately to less dangerous 
ground — such as the well, or ill-faring of their 
mutual friends, etc. — reserving, as she said, the 
right of questioning Oswald hereafter as to his 
sayings and doings abroad. And so the dread- 
ed" interview passed off, very much as Blanche 
had sketched it out in her mental programme, 
without a single embarrassing allusion to her 
past or present domestic relations ; for Mark’s 
name was never mentioned from first to last : 
but when Gauntlet rose to depart, she as nearly 
as possible spoiled all by breaking down. 

“You’ll come again soon, very soon — won’t 
you?” she said holding his hand fast. “I am 
so lonely !” 

A whole chapter of lamentations and com- 
plaints would not have been so piteously eloquent 
as that one sentence. It was, in terrible earnest, 
“the cry of the helpless and needy in their dis- 
tress.” 

“I’ll come as often as you like,” Oswald said, 
once more forcing himself to speak cheerily — it 
was a harder effort than ever now. “Oftener 
than you like perhaps. Now, good-bye for the 
present : remember your promise about the doc- 
tor ; it will be claimed to-morrow.” 

The pent-up tears flowed apace when Blanche 


110 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


was left alone. Nevertheless, she felt glad and 
grateful beyond words for Oswald Gauntlet’s re- 
turn. 

As for him — this is what he muttered through 
his teeth as he strode away, scarcely knowing 
whither he went : 

“Dying — dying of neglect ! And they want 
us to believe in justice and mercy !” 

Better Christians than the poor horse -gun- 
ner, perhaps, have sinned almost as heavily in 
thought when such a trial vexed them sore. It 
is so much easier to recognize that we ourselves 
are punished according to our deserts than that 
the penance of those we love very dearly is mer- 
ited. The maxim “Whatever is, is right,” dates 
from old time. It ought to guide us in rough 
paths no less than in smooth, and others besides 
complacent sinecurists are bound to respect it. 
It might have seemed to many, that Blanche 
Ramsay was now only expiating the misdemean- 
ors of Blanche Ellerslie. But if all jurists that 
ever expounded points of law, and all the di- 
vines that ever taught submission, had pleaded 
and preached to this effect till they were hoarse, 
and if Oswald Gauntlet had patience to listen to 
the end, he would still have reared his rebellious 
head and answered : 

“A lie!” 

« 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Among the many mansions that woke up to 
life with the spring, Nithsdale House, of course, 
was numbered. The Countess was there, and 
— if we may be allowed the expression — “all 
there.” Indeed, before the marigolds were in 
bud, the choir of her adherents had begun to 
chant in their hearts, if not with their lips, 

With every thing that pretty bin, 

Our lady sweet, arise! 

And she answered blithesomely to the call. 
Country air and gentle exercise had refreshed 
her wonderfully, and she came up — as her rac- 
ing friends would have expressed it — “ in bloom- 
ing condition” for the season’s work. Earl 
Hugh had left his home-farm and young plan- 
tations with less reluctance than heretofore. He 
grew fonder of his dear little wife every day ; 
and, though he could not enter actually into her 
favorite amusements, it was such a pleasure to 
him to realize that she was enjoying herself, 
that he began to think London not such a weari- 
some place after all. A certain carefulness — 
not to say smartness — was observable in his at- 
tire, which had hitherto been of the homeliest. 
Indeed, some of his cronies at the Sanctorium 
bantered him on this point; and the Earl did 
not deny, or seem to dislike, the imputation. 

The Daventrys, too, were to the front again. 
Though the duties of hereditary legislation sat 
very lightly on the head of the family, he was 
generally to be found in his place about the time 
of the great spring handicaps. If the winter re- 
cess had done much for Lady Nithsdale, it had 
certainly done more for her sister. The slender 
figure had acquired a richer roundness ; and the 
girlish face, a more decided character, without 
losing any of its delicacy. The startled anxious 
look, that might have been seen there often 
enough last summer, was never seen now in the 
Spanish eyes. Of all the lights that shine over 


this earth of ours, is there one that can compare 
with the dawn of fair womanhood? In this 
light, Gwendoline Marston just now lived and 
moved. It was soon beyond dispute that she 
would rank high among the beauties of that 
season ; and none acknowledged the fact more 
than another old acquaintance of ours. 

The world had not gone particularly well with 
Horace Kendall since the cup of wealth — not to 
say of happiness — was dashed from his grasp so 
rudely. The life of an absolutely idle man with 
small means, and few personal friends, is not 
often enviable. He was not absolutely a pauper, 
it is true ; but the loss of the small salary drawn 
from the Rescript Office made a material dif- 
ference to his income ; for, though that same 
mysterious allowance was still continued, he had 
had a hint — conveyed in equally mysterious 
fashion — that it might lapse at any time. This, 
added to a flourishing crop of small debts, made 
the look-out ahead rather gloomy. But it was 
not only as a profitable speculation, that he re- 
pented himself of having lost Nina Marston. 
Watching her eagerly— and he never lost an op- 
portunity of so watching her — as she walked or 
sat in the glory of her beauty, he was filled with 
regret and longing which, if not good and gen- 
erous, were at least sincere. All that there was 
of manhood in this man’s nature was waked at 
last — and waked for his punishment ; and very 
often, 

His own thought drove him like a goad. 

He did not find many distractions in society 
either. It might have been part of his self-tor- 
menting to imagine this ; but somehow people 
were not so anxious now to invite him to their 
houses as before, and the influx of invitation- 
cards was not positively overwhelming. With 
Lady Longfield, for instance, he was scarcely on 
speaking terms — to be sure, he had treated his 
early patroness with such insolent neglect, when 
he was in the zenith of his prosperity, that it 
was no wonder she should be offended. In point 
of fact, it was not so. The good lady was inca- 
pable of bearing malice against any one — simply 
because she had not memory enough to cherish 
even an affront ; but her pretty cage would only 
hold one lion at a time, and it was fully occupied 
now by a distinguished foreigner, who had come 
over from Nordland, with a head of hair like 
Absalom’s, and a touch on the harp like that of 
Absalom’s sire. She had forgotten Kendall’s 
existence — that was all : and perhaps society 
had, to a certain extent, followed her example. 
When a person with no substantial claims on its 
attention, once loses the world’s ear, it is a 
chance, as every one knows, if he gets listened 
to again. 

So, by day and by night, Horace went about 
discontentedly to each and every place where 
there was any likelihood of his meeting his lost 
love; and when he did meet her what did it 
profit him ? Whether he looked plaintive or sav- 
age — and his eyes were tolerably expressive, you 
will remember — he was always answered by the 
careless salute, before which he had winced, as 
he stood side by side with his betrothed to re- 
ceive congratulations on his triumph. Twenty 
times he had gone forth swearing a great oath, 
that he would accost her and know the worst of 
it; and each time he had come back, without 
having opened his lips, cursing himself as fool 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


and coward. When at last he did speak it was 
without premeditation, and it happened in this 1 
wise. 

It was at a garden-party at Fulham — one of 
the earliest of the season ; and the hostess had 
invited quite as many people as her grounds would 
comfortably hold. Nina was too bewitching that 
day. She wore the peculiar shade of blue which, 
beyond all other colors, became her. She was 
in radiant spirits too ; and, every now and then, 
you might hear her silvery laugh trilling from 
amongst the little crowd that seemed determined 
to beset her. Horace looked on and listened, 
till he waxed wild ; and, while the fit was still 
upon him, it chanced that Nina stood for a sec- 
ond quite alone. A waltz was just over, and her 
partner had gone to fetch her something from 
the buffet close by. She did not notice Horace’s 
approach, till his voice sounded close behind her 
shoulder. 

“ Good-morning, Lady Gwendoline. You see 
I can’t keep silence any longer.” 

She did not start : although the laughing light 
had vanished from the face she turned upon him, 
there was neither anger nor scorn there — only 
perfect calm. 

“And why not ?” she asked. “ Have you any 
thing particular to say?” 

He put on his best expression of tender re- 
proach. It was wonderful, on what small en- 
couragement the man would grow melodramat- 
ic : if he had been on his death-bed, unless dis- 
traught with terror, I believe he would have tried 
for an “effect.” 

“How can you ask such a question? Can 
not you guess what I would say? If you would 
only listen — Is pardon utterly hopeless ? Ah ! 
have you forgotten your last letter? I read it 
through daily.” 

She did start now, slightly — there was no de- 
nying it — and her color changed withal. 

“I have not forgotten it,” she said, in a very 
low, quiet voice. 

There was no time for more; for just then 
Nina’s partner returned, and Kendall fell back. 
He had tact enough to know that, if he had gain- 
ed any advantage, now was not the time to press 
it. 

“I’ve made her answer me,” he muttered; 
“ that’s one point scored ; and I’ve got over my 
d — d shamefacedness — that’s another.” 

And he went home better pleased with the 
world in general, and himself in particular, than 
he had felt for a long while past. 

Howsoever sanguine may have been the ex- 
pectation that Horace founded on this incident, 
he certainly was not prepared for a note that 
reached him by post the very next morning. It 
contained one sentence only. 

u If you can call at Nithsdale House this after- 
noon , between two and three , I shall be glad to see 
you. ” 

He turned the note over and over, as if he 
were not sure that he read aright. There was 
no mistake about the handwriting — he could 
swear to that anywhere. Why, her last letter — 
it was an odd coincidence, certainly — had reach- 
ed him under precisely similar circumstances of 
place and hour. He fell into a hurly-burly of 
thought, quite bewildering. 

What could be the meaning of this sudden re- 


111 

lenting ? Was it possible that the cold indiffer- 
ent demeanor had only been a mask, whilst the 
willful passionate heart was still more than half 
his own, and that Nina had only waited for a 
chance of being reconciled ? Very possible, cer- 
tainly. He would have preferred seeing a little 
more emotion when he accosted her yesterday • 
but then she had always wonderful self-command, 
and plenty of pride, too. Doubtless, even now, 
much special pleading would be needed to ban- 
ish her bouderie. If he could get her alone for a 
clear half-hour, he had no fear of failing here. 
Of course, she meant to see him alone ; but why 
at Nithsdale House? Perhaps it was the safest 
— the only safe place after all. Their last ren- 
dezvous in the open air had not come off so suc- 
cessfully, as to tempt her to risk another such. 
Perhaps she had enlisted her sister on her side : 
there was no telling. Every body said the Count- 
ess was a paragon of good-nature — though he 
himself could never quite see it — and if matters 
were once put straight again, they w r ould run 
more smoothly than ever. Finally, he came to 
the conclusion that Horace Kendall was a very 
fascinating person, and fully deserved all the luck 
that could befall him — only henceforth, he must 
throw no chance away. He 6pent the rest of 
the morning in deciding on the line of argument 
that he meant to adopt ; and he had got it toler- 
ably well cut and dried when he started to keep 
the appointment. 

Despite all this, he did not feel quite so satis- 
fied as he stood under the portico of Nithsdaje 
House ; and, as he mounted the great staircase, 
his confidence oozed out, much after the fashion 
of Mr. Acre’s courage; so that he came into 
Nina’s presence in rather a modest and humble 
frame of mind. She was waiting for him — alone, 
as he had expected — in the first and smallest of 
the four reception-rooms that occupied nearly 
the whole of that floor; and the folding-doors 
leading into the next apartment were closed. 

She rose up as he entered, saying, 

“ You are very punctual. I am glad you have 
come.” 

But her hand was not stretched forth to wel- 
come him ; it only pointed to a chair, close to 
the sofa on which she had been sitting. It was 
not quite the greeting he had reckoned on ; and, 
somehow, the programme did not look quite so 
easy as it had done three hours ago. As he sat 
down, he began to speak hastily— as if afraid 
that, if he hesitated, his nerve, or memory, or 
both might fail. 

“Could I do otherwise than come? Can not 
you fancy how I have longed for this interview ; 
and how I had hoped, almost against hope, that 
I should hear you say you forgave me? I was 
in utter despair last year — despair of ever being 
able to copae near you again ; and half-mad with 
anger too. You would not wonder, if you had 
heard the words Lord Daventry said to me that 
morning. If it had not been for this, it would 
never have happened. You must know that my 
heart had nothing to say to that unlucky engage- 
ment.” 

If her color had only changed, or if her lip 
had trembled ever so slightly, or if her eyes had 
flashed, even in anger ! But cheek, and lip, and 
eye were steady as steel. 

“I have nothing to forgive,” she answered. 
“There is no use in forgiving dead people or 


112 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


things, I have always heard ; and our past is dead 
long ago. You gave me a sharp lesson, and it 
has not been lost on me — that’s all. If it pleases 
you to give papa the credit of all that was said 
or done after that morning — very soon after, too 
— :I dare say he would be content to take it. I 
don’t want to hear about your engagement. I 
was sorry — yes, really sorry — for your sake, and, 
still more, for hers, that it ended so terribly. It 
was for quite another reason that I asked you to 
come here to-day.” 

Was this quiet, self-possessed woman the same 
Nina Marston who used to flush and flutter under 
his glance, and shrink before a sharp word? Ken- 
dall was bewildered. 

“ Then what was the reason ?” 

“It is soon told. You spoke of a letter of 
mine yesterday. I suppose you have it still — and 
there was an armlet too.” 

As his golden visions vanished faster and fast- 
er, his face began to lower. 

“ So that’s your game, my lady” — he said to 
himself — “to get every thing back that could 
compromise you, and then to drop me quietly. 
Not a bad game either ; but I’ll spoil it yet.” 

Nevertheless, he answered in his silkiest voice. 

“Yes, I have it safe; and the armlet too — 
and every line you ever wrote, and every flower 
you ever gave me. Is it likely I should ever part 
with, or destroy, any thing that links me to you?” 

“ I don’t know about it’s being likely. I only 
know that I sent for you here for the one purpose 
of asking you to give me back — every thing.” 

His eyes grew cunning and malignant, and his 
tone almost openly defiant. 

“I will not part with a scrap of paper, or a rose- 
leaf — to say nothing of the armlet — while I live.” 

She did not seem a whit vexed or surprised : 
indeed, she scarcely repressed an evident inclina- 
tion to smile. 

“ You can keep the flowers, if you have a fancy 
for relics. It’s the other things I am anxious 
about — really anxious, I don’t mind confessing 
it ; or I should not have sought this interview. 
But I never quite expected that you would give 
them back — for nothing. I know exactly how 
often I wrote to you ; and, as you have kept 
every scrap, there should be no difficulty about 
the letters. They can’t be worth much to you. 
Now to me — with the armlet, of course — they 
would be worth just £500. Will you sell them ?” 

Horace Kendall, as you know, was not troubled 
with many of the finer feelings that hamper some 
people in their pursuit of substantial advantages ; 
but he sprang up from his seat now, with his 
cheeks all aflame, as if a buffet had lighted on 
them suddenly. 

“Did you send for me here to insult me?” he 
stammered. “Itwas base — cruel — unwomanly.” 

She smiled outright now. 

“ I thought we had quite done with theatri- 
cals. Pray don’t excite yourself unnecessarily. 
It is only a question of buying and selling. There 
r** is no insult in a fair proposal. If you won’t ac- 
cept my terms, I am sorry for it. I’m afraid I 
can’t raise them.” 

If wishes could wither, or kill, Gwendoline 
Marston’s tenure of life and beauty would have 
been slight indeed, just then. After the first pas- 
sionate outbreak, Kendall had cooled down al- 
most instantly ; but his sneer was worse to look 
upon than his scowl. 


“ You are magnificent in your offers, at all 
events. It’s rather an expensive whim, this last 
one of yours. Since when have you become a 
millionnaire ?” 

“All! you doubt my power of performing 
what I promised? Well, you have a perfect 
right to do so, and ought to be satisfied.” 

Before he was aware of her intent, she had 
crossed the room with her swift, springy step, and 
opened the folding-doors, beckoning to some one 
within. The some one was no other than the 
master of the house himself. Now Lord Niths- 
dale was not only very kind-hearted and easy- 
tempered by nature, but showed it in all his bear- 
ing toward his fellow-men. Even on the Bench 
he had a way — as we have hinted before — of look- 
ing at criminals, when it was not a case of pre- 
sonal violence, much more compassionately and 
encouragingly than was becoming in a Chairman 
of Quarter Sessions. Perhaps not twice before 
in all his life had such an expression been seen 
on his honest, homely face as it wore when he 
came forward now, faking no sort of notice of 
Horace’s nervous salutation. 

“Hugh” — Lady Gwendoline said — “I want 
you to convince Mr. Kendall, that the money we 
have been speaking of will be forthcoming.” 

The Earl nodded to her kindly ; but when he 
addressed himself to his visitor, John of Somer- 
set himself could not have quarrelled with the 
affability of his manner. 

“You can scarcely suppose,” he said, “that 
this interview would have been allowed to have 
taken place here, unless Lady Gwendoline Mar- 
ston had previously consulted me, and unless I 
had approved of its object. Why she took me, 
instead of Lady Daventry, into her confidence, 
concerns no one but ourselves. I decline, also, 
to discuss, for one moment, the circumstances 
under which these letters and other matters came 
into your hands. It is sufficient to assume, that 
Lady Gwendoline desires to get possession of 
them — of every thing — and that she is prepared 
to pay a fair price for so doing. My guaranty 
will probably be satisfactory ; besides, I have my 
check-book here. It is for you to say, whether 
you accede to our terms or not. They will not 
be altered ; but you can take time to consider 
them, of course.” 

Horace was almost choked by disappointment 
and rage ; but his very passion gave him strength 
that he might otherwise have lacked, to make an 
attempt at self-assertion. 

“I don’t want an instant to consider,” he an- 
swered, with great heat. “ After the words that 
have been said here, I should despise myself if I 
kept one thing that could remind me of Lady 
Gwendoline Marston. All that pertains to her 
shall be returned within the hour, and without a 
bribe. I trust that you will both some day repent 
this insult — utterly uncalled for and impossible 
to resent — that you have thought fit to put upon 
me.” 

And so Horace Kendall made his exit from 
this our stage — not so clumsily after all, if he did 
not precisely strut off with an air. Let us hope 
that his small audience did not begrudge him his 
little effect. Lord Nithsdale watched him de- 
part, with a queer expression of dislike, dashed 
with curiosity, such as might suit an entomologist 
who had just lighted on some rare but revolting 
specimen. As the door closed, he turned to Nina. 


113 


BLANCHE ELLERSLlE S ENDING. 


“ That’s well got rid of, at all events. "We’ll 
send the check directly we get your packet. It 
won’t be returned, you’ll see.” 

She tried to smile up in his face, and to mur- 
mur a few words of thanks ; but it was a failure. 
And then Gwendoline Marston did what, under 
the circumstances, was perhaps the last thing you 
would have expected of her — she sat down, and 
began to cry bitterly. But her tears were dry 
long before the packet arrived, though it came 
punctually enough ; and the messenger took back 
an envelope containing a slip of that plain gray 
paper, which on certain occasions is apt, more 
than the most perfect picture, to wake “the de- 
sire of the eye.” 

Horace Kendall cursed the giver freely, as he 
crumpled the check in his hot fingers ; but he 
took special care not to tear or destroy it ; and 
he would perhaps have been infinitely discon- 
certed, if the envelope had contained a less prac- 
tical proof that he had been right in trusting 
to the other side’s liberality. The £500, in fig- 
ures, looked fair and round ; and the subsidy 
would help materially to clear off a crop of ill 
weeds in the shape of debt. Why should he 
trouble himself to be generous to utter strangers 
— such as all connected with the Marston name 
must henceforth be to him ? If his feelings had 
been hurt — cruelly hurt — there was the more 
reason for golden salve. In fine, he pocketed 
the check ; and cashed it without delay. 
r When Gwendoline Marston that night in her 
prayers thanked God that she was free — quite 
free — she had as ample cause for gratitude, as 
ever had woman — be she maid, wife, or widow — 
since Eve’s first orison. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

If a man overborne by any grief 1 or pain — not 
the more endurable because no outward symp- 
toms can be discerned — should go forth into a 
crowd to seek for solace, the chances are, that 
he will return in a more discontented frame of 
mind than that in which he set out — simply 
from realizing the fact, how infinitely little his 
own sufferings affect the rest of the world at its 
work or play. It seems very hard ; and it seems 
quite as much so to those who would repel rath- 
er than solicit verbal condolement, as to the 
tenderer natures who are not too proud to be 
pitied or petted. Yet there is less reason in this 
than in most human repinings : we might just as 
well expect a darkening on the face of Nature, 
when our own mood is gloomy, as on the face 
of Society. The children may complain to their 
fellows that these have not danced to their pip- 
ing, nor wept to their mourning ; but we whose 
beards are grown, if not grizzled, ought at least 
to have learned this lesson — that it is not in the 
market-place we must look for sympathy to 
lighten the burden, or increase the joyaunce of 
our day. 

Suppose that, spent with hard struggling for 
life, we stand on a sinking ship— why should it 
disquiet our friends ashore, who, if a blast shrill- 
er than common should roar round the gable, 
will only mutter, “A wild night,” and then fin- 
ish thrir wine with a keener zest ; or our warier 
comrades vrho, ere this, have found safe anchor- 


age under the lee of the black headland we : a u 
never weather? Still more, how can it c mcern 
the sea-folk down yonder? A fiercer storm 
than that in which we are laboring would not 
trouble the silence and rest, 

Where there is neither moon nor star, 

But the waves make music above them afar 

Low thunder and light iu the magic night. 

Nay, if all tales are true, nothing that once 
was flesh and blood sinks far below the central, 
deeps ; and there is no fear lest the mermaideni 
at her play should be frighted by any such ugly 
sight as the corpse of a drowned man. 

So the business and pleasure of this season 
went on, just as if no story could have been 
written about any one in particular concerned 
therein. It was a summer, to be sure, somewhat 
fruitful of misfortune. There was terribly heavy 
plunging east as well as west of Temple Bar; 
and certain disasters caused the most careless of 
passers-by to stop for a second to listen to the 
crash and watch the ruin. But when merchant- 
princes met, haggard and careworn, in conclave, 
to discuss whether for the general credit’s sake, 
it were not better to avert some great house’s 
downfall by private sacrifices — not only of mon- 
ey, but of principle ; for the very indulgence 
verged on a compromise of crime — the layers at 
the Corner were not less busy or the backers 
less bold. And when the heir to a great name 
and fair estate was found with a bullet through 
his heart after the St. Maur hapdicap was won 
by a dead outsider, the event was scarcely men- 
tioned on ’Change, and was instantly forgotten 
in the hubbub of the announcement that Cacus 
and Co. had failed. 

Without this preamble, you would probably 
have inferred that the drama in which the Ram- 
says bore principal parts attracted no sort of 
public attention ; nevertheless the plot thickened 
daily, simply because it was evident to any who 
cared to watch it, that the last scene must be 
played out ere long. 

The Brancepeths came to town rather later 
than usual ; but within an hour of their arrival 
La Reine was sitting with Blanche. The change 
in her friend’s appearance that she had noticed 
at Christmas struck her much more forcibly now 
— so forcibly that she forgot all her prudent doc- 
trines of non-interference, and freed her soul 
abruptly. 

“ It’s no use, Blanche : I dare say I shall only 
make matters worse ; but I can’t be a hypocrite 
any longer. It is being a hypocrite; to keep on 
pretending to think there’s nothing the matter, 
when you are fretting yourself to death under 
one’s eyes ; and to pretend, too, that I don’t 
know what’s wrong. Won’t you let me talk to 
you about it at all events, and make sure that 
I can’t help you in any possibly way ? How I 
do wish I could !” 

Lady Laura had nestled down on a low foot- 
stool, close to the sofa on which Mrs. Ramsay 
was lying; and, as in her eagerness she pressed 
the other’s hand, she felt it grow cold and trem- 
ble. Nevertheless Blanche’s face lighted up a 
little. 

“Yes, I don’t mind talking about it — now , 
Qucenie. Do you remember one afternoon in 
Craven Square, when you wished me happy, 
and promised that if I ever confessed to you it 
was otherwise, you wouldn’t answer with — ‘I 


114 


BREAKING A B 

told you how it » would be ?’ You’ll keep that 
promise, dear, I know. You wouldn’t be harder 
on me than Oswald Gauntlet ; he has never re- 
minded me of his warning — he did warn me be- 
fore it was too late ; perhaps you guessed that 
— and I have hurt him more than I vexed you.” 

“Hard on you?” Laura broke in, “I didn’t 
think any one could be — till lately. Even now, 
I don’t believe your husband realizes the harm 
that has been done and is doing. Men, under 
certain circumstances, are so awfully blind ; 
even when they don’t shut their eyes willfully. 
Would you mind my speaking to him — I don’t 
mean scolding, but speaking — I am not the least 
bit afraid?” 

The other raised herself on her arm, with an 
eagerness closely resembling terror. 

“Don’t dream of such a thing, Queenie. I 
wouldn’t have you do it for the world. You 
can not possibly do any good ; and you might 
• do more harm than you can imagine. You 
don’t know Mark, or such an idea would never 
have entered your head.” 

La Heine’s face expressed, pretty plainly, that 
a superficial acquaintance with Mark Ramsay’s 
character was as much as she cared for ; but she 
nodded, and seemed in no wise disconcerted at 
finding her first suggestion unfavorably received. 

“Do you think I might speak to — any one 
else?” she said after a slight pause. 

There was no need of an interpreter between 
those two. Blanche knew perfectly whom “any 
one else” meant; and her face actually flushed 
as she answered : 

“O, Queenie, that would be worse than all I 
I never had much proper pride, as they call it. 

I would go down on my knees this moment, to 
win from 'Mark one of the old kind looks and 
words. But to her — If I heard that interces- 
sion had been made for me there, I should die 
of the shame.” 

Lady Laura bit her lip. It was not so much 
the rejection of her good offices, as the con- 
sciousness of her own inefficiency, that chafed 
her. 

“I don’t think I should have exactly inter- 
ceded : there are so many ways of putting things. 
But perhaps you’re right, dear. I’m too much 
of a blunderer to be trusted. Is there nothing — 
absolutely nothing — I can do ? It’s so provok- 
ing to be useless and helpless.” 

“ You can do a great deal,” Blanche said, as 
she laid her cheek against the other’s shoulder. 
“You can come and sit with me when you’ve 
nothing better to do. I’m not the least like 
an invalid : but somehow I’ve got so dreadfully 
indolent lately, that every afternoon, -when I’ve 
been out for about an hour, I always want to 
creep back here : then, if I rest till dinner-time, 

I get through the evening tolerably well.” 

“Not an invalid?” the other interrupted im- 
patiently. “I wonder what your doctor would 
call you. I suppose you’ve gone through the 
form of seeing one by this time ?” 

“Indeed I have,” Blanche replied, with her 
faint smile. “Oswald Gauntlet made such a 
point of it the first time he called, and he be- 
haved so wonderfully well altogether, that I 
couldn’t refuse him. And a very nice — moth- 
erly person I was going to say — that same Dr. 
Swinton is. He’s a wonderful reputation, and 
yet I don’t exactly believe in him : but his medi- 


JTTERFLY ; OR, 

cines are quite delicious ; and he’s a voice like 
an elderly turtle-dove. You can’t think how 
soothing it is, to hear him cooing away close to 
your ear. I always feel sleepy after he’s gone.” 

“Well, but what does he say is the matter 
with you ?” Lady Laura persisted. ‘ ‘ He must 
have given a rational opinion at some time or 
another.” 

“It’s something about a sluggish action of the 
heart,” Blanche said placidly. “ I’m sure I don’t 
know what that means; I should have thought 
that mine went fast enough, sometimes — not al- 
ways — to satisfy any body.” 

“ And what does he tell you to do, or not to 
do?” 

“ I’m never to overtire myself, and to be amused 
as much as possible without being excited, and 
to eat every thing I can fancy. Not a hard regi- 
men, is it ? And then he says I shall be well 
very soon. Queenie dear ” — here her voice sank, 
but did not tremble in the least — “I think the 
doctor’s right ; I believe I shall be well very — 
soon.” 

For a minute or two after that Laura Brance- 
peth saw all things through a mist darkly. She 
did not trust herself to speak of these things 
further that day ; and it was long before she had 
courage to broach the subject again. 

If Major Gauntlet did not fulfill his threat of 
coming too often, and never overstaid his wel- 
come, it was not for want of making the experi- 
ment. As yet he had never encountered Mark 
Ramsay in his own house. Twice or thrice they 
met casually in society ; and, on one of these oc- 
casions, Mark said a few polite words about the 
cheering effects of the other’s visits on Blanche’s 
spirits. 

“I can always tell when you’ve been there,” 
he concluded. 

It did not seem to strike him that he himself 
had any busjness “there or that he was expect- 
ed to do any thing toward lightening his wife’s 
depression — though he ignored it no longer. 

Oswald felt much as Laura Brancepeth had 
done under like circumstances ; and, as man 
talking to man, he found it even more difficult 
to frame his answer fittingly. It seemed almost 
intolerable to accept the cool careless words of 
compliment from the author of all the mischief 
that had been done, and never could be undone ; 
and to be conscious the while that the speaker 
was deliberately trampling under foot a gift that, 
to that other, seemed priceless. He did contrive 
to mutter some meaningless commonplaces ; but 
thenceforth, he gave Mark no chance of airing 
his courtesy. 

Before any of the events recorded in the last 
two chapters occurred, Alice Irving had ceased 
to be the Ramsays’ guest, and had gone back to 
keep house for her father, who had returned 
somewhat sooner from Paris than was expected. 
During her visit not a word worthy of the record- 
ing passed between her and Blanche. The gen- 
tle deference to her hostess and utter absence of 
self-assertion which had marked the girl’s de- 
meanor in the later days at Kenlis were still un- 
altered ; and her bearing toward Mark — in the 
presence of a third person at least — was quite 
faultless. Their sayings or doings, en champ 
clos, shall have no place in this story. A few- 
even if they have not made novelettes their chief 
study— will be able to fill up the blank page ; 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


115 


and to others let it remain a tabula rasa. Licit 
and lawful love-making, perhaps, is not often 
brilliant in reality ; and not many would have 
patience to read through one chapter thereof 
reported verbatim : yet it is honest bread at all 
events, if it be somewhat stale and flavorless. 
There is little of the wholesome leaven in such 
converse as was likely to pass betwixt Blanche 
Ramsay’s husband and Alexander Irving’s daugh- 
ter. 

That some such mutual understanding as has 
been hinted at above — not the less definite, per- 
haps, because it had never been written down or 
outspoken — subsisted between them, is certain. 
Doubtless Alice had grounds for reckoning on 
speedy promotion, in the event of a death-va- 
cancy. 

Now you will be good enough to remember, 
that in one of our opening chapters it was set 
down that Ramsay was as far removed from my 
own personal idea of a hero as it is well possible 
to conceive. Howsoever austerely he may be 
judged, it is not his biographer who will plead ex- 
tenuating circumstances, or take exception to the 
verdict. Nevertheless, I should like you to realize 
that it is a man — perverted and depraved as you 
will, but still a man, and not a monster — here 
described. It may seem to some almost prepos- 
terous that such a compact should exist at all — 
much less before the ink in the marriage-lines of 
one of the parties thereto had had time to fade. 
Bst as to the fact, I fear one would not have to 
search far through modern annals to find its par- 
allel ; and, if witnesses were to be called as to 
the mere probability, more than one name not 
yet erased from visiting-lists would be found on 
the subpoena. As to the time — Well, there are 
other ways of reckoning this than by the pen- 
dulum. 

There is a weird old German story that tells 
how a student once sold himself to the Tempter, 
for a price in which length of days was a chief 
item. How the rest of the juggle was wrought 
out matters not ; but this part of the bargain the 
Fiend evaded by causing his victim every now 
and then to fall into a trance, which lasted for 
years instead of hours, in some desert place ; so 
that the dupe reached the extremest limit of 
man’s existence, before he had lived half its 
span. 

My brother, it might happen to you or to me 

for it has happened to our betters — without 

having given bond to Sathanas, on awaking from 
a lethargy or a dream, which seemed only to en- 
dure a few seconds' space, to find all around us 
barren and lonely, and ourselves wrinkled and 
withered and gray. 

Yet it is certain that Irving had not been 
wrong in the confidence that he reposed in his 
daughter — if a calculation, evil and base at the 
best, be worthy of the name. However closely 
Alice mav have walked to the verge of crime, 
she assuredly had not hitherto forfeited the right 
to boast that she could take very good care of 
herself. Mark had no doubt won from her 
more than any honest man has aright to expect 
from a woman who can not bear his name ; but 
he w’as still more than half baffled by a steady re- 
sistance such as he had seldom or never befoie 
encountered. In this, perhaps as much as in 
any thing else, lay the secret of his being so be- 
witched as he had avowed himself to Alsager. 


It was in his nature to wait forever, rather than 
abandon an object on which he had earnestly 
fixed his desire : but the struggle and strife told 
on him outwardly; and, had you perused his 
face narrowly, you would have found divers lines 
and hollows that were not there last autumn. 

Blanche’s bearing toward her guest was per- 
fect, too, in its way. She no longer affected 
cordiality ; but in the minutest observances of 
all courtesy she never failed. The state of her 
health was quite sufficient excuse for her not 
chaperoning Alice abroad — even if the latter, 
during her father’s absence, had not declined al- 
most all invitations. Though the visit had been 
suggested by Blanche herself, Captain Irving’s 
return was doubtless a relief; and on the day 
of Alice’s departure, she felt as if a painful strain 
had been relaxed, and quite enjoyed the reaction. 

During Miss Irving’s stay Anstruther only 
called once at the Ramsays’, and twice excused 
himself from dining there. Upon the single oc- 
casion when they met, after their first greeting, 
he scarcely seemed to notice Alice’s presence : 
only once, just before he rose to take leave, he 
glanced at her askance. His back was turned 
to Mrs. Ramsay, and Alice’s face was averted 
for a moment ; else, perhaps, one or both might 
have been startled — if not warned — by the ma- 
levolent meaning of his eyes. 

Anstruther had fallen much into his old hab- 
its again ; and now not a morning passed with- 
out his spending two hours at least in his labo- 
ratory. The only difference was, that now, as 
a rule, he preferred to work alone ; whereas be- 
fore he had usually been assisted by his servant, 
Henry Prescott by name. The man was neat- 
handed and intelligent ; and, besides, had a nat- 
ural fancy for chemistry — so much so that he 
was inclined to grumble at his services being now 
so often dispensed with. Also Anstruther had 
resumed his regular attendance at the Orion. 
He had tried his strength at piquet against Ir- 
ving several times before the other went to Paris, 
and successfully ; though the skill was so nearly 
balanced that there was no question of “a les- 
son” on either side. 

When Mrs. Ramsay was left alone again, 
Anstruther found his way to her house much 
oftener ; though his visits were still scarcely fre- 
quent enough for intimacy, and their conversa- 
tion never touched upon any thing more inter- 
esting than the ordinary topics of the day. lie 
was not a brilliant talker, certainly ; but there 
was a dry shrewdness about his remarks that not 
seldom made Blanche smile; and before Gaunt- 
let appeared he was perhaps about the most 
welcome of her visitors. Afterward things were 
altered. Of course the two men were bound to 
meet before long. On Oswald’s third visit, he 
found the chair by Blanche’s sofa already occu- 
pied by Mr. Anstruther. The latter did not 
take his leave immediately ; but he moved from 
his place at once, as though aware that the 
new-comer had a better right to it, and was un- 
usually silent during the remainder of his stay. 
More than once, when he thought he was unob- 
served, his eyes peered earnestly from under 
their shaggy* brows into the martial face over 
against him ; but there was no malevolence in 
them now — only a kind of wistful curiosity. 
And as he so gazed, the outlines of a story came 
upon him clear out of the shadow. 


na 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


“Ay, you love her dearly,” he thought within 
himself ; “ and you have loved her for half your 
life, I dare say — and what have you got for it ? A 
few sunnier smiles, and a few softer speeches 
than the other fools — that’s all. And she likes 
you better than the rest, no doubt ; and I would 
give a year or two of life to be in your place now 
— though whilst she’s looking up into your face, 
she’s whispering in her heart : ‘ If it was only 
Mark who was sitting there !’ And yet you 
would not grudge her a drop of your heart’s 
blood. It’s a brave heart, too — you didn’t get 
that Cross for nothing : I’ve heard more than 
the dispatches ever told. You’d ride with a 
laugh on your lip into a place that to us poor 
civilians would seem like the mouth of hell. But 
I’d do more for her than you, after all. I’d do 
for her that which, if it were named in your 
hearing, would take the color out of your brown 
cheek, and make your great strong pulse stand 
still. I will do it, too ; and then we’ll see which 
of us stands nearest to her — you or I.” 

These sombre meditations did not prevent 
Mr. Anstruther from expressing, with more than 
his customary courtesy, his pleasure at having 
been made acquainted with Major Gauntlet, 
lie did not seem much inclined to profit *by the 
chance, though ; for it was many a day before 
his gaunt figure darkened those doors again. 
Blanche herself remarked upon it at last. 

“ I do believe he’s jealous of you,” she remark- 
ed to Oswald. “Some people are so exacting, 
they can’t bear to share even their friends with 
any one. I’m half sorry you frightened him 
away ; he’s rather amusing, with his old-fashion- 
ed oddities.” 

The gunner twisted his mustache, somewhat 
superciliously ; as if he thought the subject not 
worth deep discussion. However — putting 
Laura Brancepeth aside, who somehow never was 
in any body’s way — he would have supported 
with much equanimity the absence of any per- 
son — -however agreeable — that was likely to in- 
terfere with the tSte-a-tete upon which he had 
come to reckon almost daily. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

Captain Irving’s winter campaign in town 
stretched into the summer. You may guess that 
it was both pleasant and profitable ; or it would 
not have been so prolonged. He had a good deal 
more than held bis own at the Orion. Besides 
Blanchemayne, who took his punishment like a 
glutton, and one other, few cared to measure their 
strength against the smooth, smiling champion, 
who seemed to have chained Fortune to his chair. 
The second exception was George Anstruther ; 
and this adversary, after a while, Irving became 
not over-eager to engage. He was not precisely 
afraid, either of the other’s skill or luck, albeit 
he recognized both; and — being superstitious, like 
all thorough-paced gamblers—was rather troub- 
led by a presentiment that he was fighting against 
heavier metal. But this was not all. He had an 
absolute dislike to sitting opposite the cold judi- 
cial eyes, that, whilst they dwelt on his own face, 
seemed to be searching for something of deeper 
import than points or sequences. Somehow he 
felt certain that this man, for some reason utterly 


inexplicable, bore him a grudge ; and Alexander 
Irving — who throughout his life had set at 
naught enmities howsoever well deserved — was 
strangely disquieted by this fancied animosity. 
From one cause or another, he never played quite 
up to his game against Anstruther, and this in 
itself chafed him sharply. When a glimmer of 
the truth crossed his mind, it was unheeded. 
Even if he had suspected that Anstruther once 
admired, or even loved, Blanche Ramsay — and 
he had long since admitted the utter improba- 
bility of the hypothesis — he would never have 
suspected him of partisanship now. 

“ He must have got hold of one of those 
cursed stories, I suppose,” he said to himself. 
“That’s what makes him look so queer.” 

Indeed, there were stories enough and to 
spare abroad, relating to Captain Irving’s youth 
and manhood, that might have accounted for peo- 
ple — not specially scrupulous or sensitive — look- 
ing on him rather queerly. However, in spite 
of occasional hitches and checks, the sojourn in 
town turned out any thing but an extravagance ; 
and others, besides Mark Ramsay, contributed to 
the free maintenance throughout the winter and 
spring of father and daughter. So satisfied was 
Irving with *the result, that he thought he would 
let well alone. His wary eye had detected divers 
indications lately as a turn in his luck, and he 
resolved to be beforehand with it. 

One morning at breakfast, without any pre- 
vious notice of his intention, he bade Alice be 
ready to return to Drumour the following week. 
She received the announcement with perfect in- 
difference ; and when her father asked her with a 
sort of lazy curiosity, “Are you glad or sorry to 
go?” it seemed as if she were speaking truth 
when she answered, “Well, I hardly know. On 
the whole, perhaps, I’m glad. I’m beginning to 
get a little tired of the cohue , and of seeing the 
same faces so often. Drumour will be quite 
lovely just now.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose you will see some of the same faces 
again before long,” Irving retorted, with a slight 
sneer; “meanwhile you can be as pastoral as * 
you please. I don’t know about Drumour being 
lovely : it cevtainly won’t be lively : but a little 
lethargy will do neither of us any harm.” 

If Mark Ramsay w r as chagrined or surprised 
when he heard of the intended departure, he dis- 
sembled extremely well. When Blanche was 
told of it by Alice herself — Miss Irving’s conven- 
tional calls had never been interrupted — she was 
fain to turn her face away, lest it should betray 
her. She would scarcely have felt so exultant, 
had she guessed at certain arrangements that 
were made that same day ; nor perhaps would 
Mark’s equanimity have seemed so very wonder- 
ful, to any one cognizant thereof. 

The respite, while it lasted, was even greater 
than that which Blanche had enjoyed at Brance- 
peth ; but it lasted hardly so long. The Irvings 
might have been gone some ten days, when Mark 
appeared in his wife’s dressing-room one morn- 
ing, whilst she was making an attempt at a late 
breakfast. He looked graver than usual, and 
frowned over some letters that he held. 

“How have you slept, Blanche?” he asked, 
just touching her brow with his lips, before he sat 
down in an arm-chair on the opposite side of the 
table to her couch. “You look better this morn- 
ing.” 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


Even that careless caress made her heart flut- 
ter and her cheek glow. 

“ I slept better; and I feel almost brilliant 
this morning : but what does those letters mean, 
Mark ? Nothing troublesome, I hope.” 

- ‘ ‘ Nothing terrible ; but decidedly troublesome. 

They seem to have a knack of getting matters 
into a tangle at Kenlis, and old Menzies has no 
head to unravel them. We shall have to change 
our factor soon ; I think lie’s getting past his 
work. Indeed, he almost confesses as much. 
It was a sort of anarchy in Sir Robert’s time ; 
and they don’t relish the mildest form of regular 
government. It’s a bore to be hampered with 
business when we have a houseful ; and I should 
like to get every thing straight before the shoot- 
ing begins. Our term here expires on the last 
of July, you know ; but I must go down much 
sooner than that — indeed, I think of starting by 
the night mail to-morrow.” 

The soft eyes rested on him more steadily 
than searchingly. It seemed rather as if she 
were beseeching him not to deceive her, than 
imputing to him any such intent. 

“It is troublesome,” she said, “ and so very 
sudden too. You know best what ought to be 
done, Mark, of course. I could not start quite 
so soon as that; but there is nothing to keep 
me in town. I could join you next week — if 
you wished it.” 

There was a piteous significance in those last 
words ; hut Mark never noticed it. He was only 
too content to see his wife take things so quietly. 
He had counted on her submission ; but scarcely 
on such a placid acquiescence. 

“ If I wished it !” he answered quite cordially. 

* ‘ Of course I wish it. The sooner you can come 
the better, Blanche: Kenlis is much too large 
and eerie a place to make a . comfortable hermit- 
age ; and I fancy the change will do you good. 
You certainly want bracing.” 

“ Bracing.” Yes ! she did want it cruelly ; but 
it was of a kind that never came on the wings 
of the purest breeze that ever rustled through 
heather. Some such fancy crossed Blanche’s 
mind ; yet, under the gleam of kindliness in 
Mark’s manner, her face brightened. 

“I have no trouble with household matters, 
so my preparations will be soon made,” she said. 
“ I don’t know whether the change will do me 
good ; but I shall like it. Town isn’t lively, 
when one only sees one’s friends at home. By- 
the-by — talking about one’s friends — have you 
settled who are to be asked to Kenlis in August ?” 

“No; I have left that to you,” he implied. 
“At least, nearly so. Alsager’s is the only name 
I’ll put down on my own account. It’s no use 
counting on Yane . He’ll be amongst the buffaloes 
about that time, from all I can hear. Blanche, 

I want you to understand that you’ll please me 
best by inviting just the people that please you 
best — neither less nor more ; and there’s no rea- 
son why they should wait for August. There’s 
very fair sea-trout fishing, and somehow or other 
people are always amused at Kenlis, or seem to 
be amused, which comes to much the same thing. 
Couldn’t you persuade some one to escort you 
down ? There’s Gauntlet, for instance : he can 
get w r hat leave he likes. If he’s no other en- 
gagement, I should think he would be charmed.” 

It was so seldom that Mark, of late, had shown 
any such solicitude for his wife’s comfort, that 


the novelty ought to have gratified if it did not 
surprise her. And yet Blanche’s heightened 
color sprang more from vexation than from any 
other cause. She could not help asking herself 
whether it was likely that, had the positions of 
the two men been reversed, Oswald would have 
dreamed of consigning her to the other’s escort • 
and further, whether Mark himself would have 
been so trustfully inclined, when he and she loi- 
tered under the Fontainebleau oaks. It was with 
a certain constraint she answered : 

“I don’t know what Major Gauntlet’s en- 
gagements may be ; but I can easily ascertain, 
and I’ll ask him to take care of me as you sug- 
gest. I dare say he will be glad to do so if he’s 
free. He’s one of the few people who like old 
friends better than new ones, and don’t mind 
trouble. I should have asked you to have found 
room for him at Kenlis, in any case, this autumn. 
I should like the Brancepeths to come too, as 
soon as they can manage it. And, Mark, would 
you mind my inviting Mr. Anstruther? He’s 
really been very good-natured in calling, and 
bringing me books, and in all sorts of ways. 
Though he declined last year, I think he’ll ac- 
cept this. I know he’s not a favorite of yours : 
but he won’t be much in your way ; for he never 
shoots, and keeps very early hours.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Mark returned coolly ; 
“ I have no sort of antipathy to Mr. AnstrutheV : 
indeed I rather admire him than otherwise. 
Judging from the little I’ve seen at the Orion, 
his whist and piquet are of the first force. Be- 
sides, it’ll be great sport to see him pitted against 
Irving ; and a professor is an acquisition almost 
anywhere. Ask him, by all means.” 

After this they spoke only of domestic matters 
of no moment ; and Mark departed well satisfied 
with the manner and result of his interview. 
Blanche did not see him alone again till the 
following evening, when he dined early at home 
before starting by the north mail. 

Not many injured wives would have let slip 
such an opportunity of taking a delinquent con- 
sort to task, were it ever so gentl} r . But Blanche 
was not equal to remonstrance — much less to 
rebuke. There are weaknesses w'hich are un- 
pardonable ; and hers was one of such, no doubt. 
If any excuse could be alleged for her supine- 
ness, it would lie in this. Not only, as w r as afore- 
said, did she hold her husband guiltless so far of 
absolute criminality ; but a shrewder and bolder 
legalist than she would have been puzzled to 
frame definite articles of accusation against ei- 
ther him or his accomplice: the guarded de- 
meanor of both — if it did not save them from 
suspicion — made them nearly safe from impeach- 
ment. Neglect, Blanche might certainly have 
complained of : but it is very hard to grapple 
with a negative; and her mignonne hands were 
not formed to grapple with any thing. If their 
tender clasp failed to detain the truant, she could 
but fold them meekly, while she sat and pined. 
The wiles of light attack and simple ambush- 
ment, which had helped her only too effectually 
to achieve the conquests that she did not care to 
keep, had failed her utterly here ; and when 
they so failed, she had no more science or ener- 
gy in reserve. 

During the tete-a-tete dinner, though her eat- 
ing and drinking was the merest form, she seem- 
ed in better spirits than usual ; and alluded once 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


118 

or twice to the people at Drumour, and the 
probability of Mark’s seeing them so soon, with 
perfect composure — mentioning also, almost tri- 
umphantly, that she had secured Oswald Gaunt- 
let’s escort for her journey in the following week. 
When it was time for Mark to depart, he came 
round to where his wife was sitting, saying, 

“ Well, good-bye for the present, Bianchella. 
Take care of yourself, and follow soon.’’ 

And he meant to seal the adieu with just such 
a careless salute as that of yesterday. Perhaps, 
unknown to himself, his tone had softened, or 
perhaps the pet name, seldom if ever bestowed 
of late, had its effect ; but, as her husband stoop- 
ed over her, Blanche turned toward him, and her 
arms were wound round his neck, and his lips 
were drawn down to hers, while she whispered, 

‘ ‘ Kiss me once, dear — only once — in the old 
way. ” 

A grain or two of remorseful pity hindered, 
just for a second or so, the smooth working of 
the well-ordered machine that served Mark Ram- 
say for a heart, as he did as he was bidden. He 
did not grudge the caress, nor seek to shorten it ; 
and if it were to be exchanged at all, it might 
well be prolonged. Scarce a year since, those 
two were formally made one, as firmly as God 
and man could weld them ; and yet, through all 
the cycles to come, their lips will never be joined 
again. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Mr. Anstruther was the earliest arrival at 
Kenlis ; for the Brancepeths could not move 
northward till after Goodwood, and Alsager was 
only expected on the eve of the Twelfth. Judg- 
ing from his demeanor during the first days of 
his stay, the former personage was not likely to 
add much to the conviviality of the party. He 
never fished, or rode, or drove ; but seemed to 
prefer a solitary ramble to any other diversion ; 
and when he sat down to piquet at Mark’s spe- 
cial invitation, it was evidently more to please 
his host than from any special interest of his own 
in the game. He played, too, in an odd, absent 
way — not nearly up to his proper form. There 
was a haggard look in his eyes ; and more than 
once Blanche was struck by this when — with an 
instinctive feeling that she was being watched — 
she looked up and met them. For the first time 
in their acquaintance, she was rather inclined to 
avoid than to seek a tete-a-tete with Mr. An- 
struther ; and, for a week at least, there was little 
or no opportunity for such a thing. But one day 
— the day before the Brancepeths’ arrival — it 
could not well be avoided. 

Mark had ridden out, as was his custom, alone 
immediately after breakfast ; and Blanche had 
positively insisted on Major Gauntlet’s profiting 
by a morning made for the destruction of sea- 
trout. She almost regretted her self-sacrifice — 
loss of Oswald’s company for six hours was noth- 
ing short of this— when she saw that Anstruth- 
er did not seem inclined to start for his usual 
ramble ; but loitered about like one who has no 
intention of stirring far afield. Watching him 
from her boudoir-window, she felt certain that 
he was making up his mind to speak to her. 

‘ ‘ I wish he’d make it up quickly, and get it 


over,” she said to herself, with something of her 
old petulance. 

And it was chiefly with a view to precipitate 
matters that she left her own room, and estab- 
lished herself in the library, which looked out 
upon the south terrace, where the gaunt figure 
was still pacing up and down. She was not kept 
long in suspense ; she had scarcely settled her- 
self on her sofa, when the door opened and An- 
struther entered. He had evidently not calcu- 
lated on finding her — at least so soon — for he 
started, and half drew backward, and advanced 
at last hesitatingly. 

“ I came to look for — for the second volume 
of Antediluvian Remains , ” he muttered. 

“ That ponderous book !” Blanche answered. 
“ Couldn’t you put off poring over it till a rainy 
day ? This one’s too delicious to be wasted. 
I’m ashamed of sitting in-doors myself ; and, as 
it is, I think I shall creep round the garden be- 
fore lunch.” 

He sat down, resting his elbow on the table 
that stood betwixt them, and shading his eyes 
with his hand. 

“ The book doesn’t matter,” he said absently ; 
“and I suppose the day is tempting. I’ve hard- 
ly noticed it. I may as well go out for my walk, 
after all. At any rate I won’t inflict my compa- 
ny upon you much longer. Don’t be compli- 
mentary, please. I know it isn’t genial compa- 
ny at anytime — less than ever now.” 

“ Why now ?” Blanche inquired. “ Are you 
beginning to suffer in the same way as you did 
last year ?” 

“ Likely enough,” he answered, with a gruff 
laugh. “Such things are apt to return, even 
when we think we are rid of them — which I nev- 
er did. Will you let me put my ailments aside 
for the present, and ask about yours ? Perhaps 
I have less reason to say, ‘ Don’t think me imper- 
tinent,’ now, than when I put the question last. 
You haven’t grown stronger since then.” 

“Not stronger, certainly,” Blanche said, with 
an attempt at cheerfulness ; “but who knows 
what the Highland air will do for me ?” 

The long, bony fingers clasping his brow con- 
tracted a little. 

‘ ‘ It did you more harm than good last year, 
that same air. Mrs. Ramsay — I have given of- 
fense often enough in my life, by being rough 
and plain of speech. If I’m to be unlucky again 
now, I can’t help it. I mean what I say, and I 
never forget what I say. Perhaps you’ve guess- 
ed that I’m going to remind you of something I 
said not much more than a year ago ; when. I in- 
terpreted the letters engraved on that trinket — 
you haven’t got tired of it yet. I said, you may 
remember, that if you ever needed help, I should- 
be ready to serve you in other ways than as ad- 
viser or trustee. I think you do need help now ; 
and — I am ready.” 

Blanche looked at him in utter amazement. 
Could he possibly imagine that she — who to 
Laura Brancepeth had given only a half confi- 
dence ; to Oswald Gauntlet none — would . lay 
bare to George Anstruther the secret of her 
heart’s bitterness? A grain more pride would 
have made her answer haughty. As it was, it 
was cold. > 

“ Thanks : you mean every thing that is kind. 
But I can not see how you can give me help ; and 
I don’t know that I need any.” 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


The hand covering his face sank by degrees 1 
till it rested on the table ; but the shaggy brows 
still shaded the downcast eyes. 

“ You do not see — you do not know,” he said. 
“ I both see and know. I see that, if it were 
not for one shadow over your life, it might run 
on smoothly and brightly enough — ay ! for years 
after I am dead and gone ; and I know this 
shadow might be removed. There — I have not 
patience to speak in parables — Blanche Ramsay, 
would not the world look pleasanter if Alice Ir- 
ving were out of it, or out of your way ?” 

Her nerves had never been very strong, and 
weakness and fretting had unstrung them so of 
late, that a very slight shock was enough to break 
them down. She was dreadfully frightened now. 
It was not that she had a suspicion of the real 
import of Anstruther’s words : her only definite 
idea was that she had fallen on one of the cases 
of sudden and unaccountable insanity, of which 
she had read and heard, and was alone with a 
maniac. Looking up with this terror upon her 
she met his eyes — lifted now for the first time — 
gleaming with an eager malice. Blanche shrank 
back into the farthest corner of her sofa, with a 
smothered cry. She knew afterward that she 
had answered quite quietly, and wondered to her- 
self ; but, at the moment, she was scarcely con- 
scious of what she said. 

“ Don’t talk in that strange way, or look at 
me so strangely. The world is well enough with 
its lights and shadows as they are. I have no 
wish to alter them. If you speak like that again 
I shall forget you are an old kind friend, and be 
very — very — angry. ” 

The effort almost exhausted her, and she broke 
down with a gasp and a sob. Anstruther saw 
at once the effect of his words — precisely the 
contrary of what he had intended — and his first 
impulse was to undo this. He swept his hand 
quickly across his eyes ; when they met Blanche’s 
again, the evil fire had died out of them, and 
they were colorless and cold. 

“Pray don’t disturb yourself,” he said in his 
most deliberate tones. “You have completely 
misapprehended my meaning : but let that pass. 
My intrusion was quite unwarrantable, and I ask 
your pardon for it humbly. I'll promise never 
to repeat the offense. It’s sufficient for me to 
know that you don’t think fit to trust me. I 
ought never to have expected otherwise. ” 

The staid sobriety of his manner re-assured her 
at once. “It was only his brusque , awkward 
way of putting things, after all, ’’she thought to 
herself. He had meant to console her — there 
could' not be a doubt of it ; only she did not 
want consolation from that quarter. 

“There is no offense,” she said softly when 
her breath grew steady again. “ I ought to be 
grateful to any one who takes an interest in my 
happiness, or unhappiness ; and I am grateful, 
believe me. But there are some things one does 
not talk about, even to one’s self. The best way 
will be to forget every thing that has been said 
this morning. Will it not ?” 

And she held out her hand still trembling. 

“ Much the best way,” he answered as he put 
it to his lips in a dull mechanical way. The life 
and heat that were there a few minutes ago 
seemed utterly to have gone out of the man ; 
and as he rose up, his very limbs seemed to move 
stiffly. 


119 

“It will be much the best so ; and now I’ll go 
for my walk. I have done mischief enough for 
one day.” 

So, without listening to a faint contradiction 
from Blanche, he departed. Though she called 
herself fool for having been frightened at all, for 
a good while after she was left alone she lay flut- 
tering and quaking like one scarce awake from 
an ugly dream ; and it was with great difficulty 
that she repressed a temptation to indulge in a 
hearty crying fit. Such temptations were much 
too frequent of late, it must be owned. When 
she was a little recovered, she rang and ordered 
her pony carriage, and caused herself to be driven 
down to the nearest point to the trouting-ground. 

In truth the fishermen were found, so to speak, 
almost within hail. Mrs. Ramsay brought with 
her a much more elaborate lunch than had been 
carried out in the spare creel ; and the two con- 
sumed it in great comfort and amity — though the 
lady’s portion would scarcely have overfed a ca- 
nary. 

Often and vividly in after-time will the memo- 
ry of that scene recur to Oswald Gauntlet. If 
he should live till his ears wax dull, and his eyes 
dim, he will not forget the whisper of the birches 
overhead ; or the glimmer of the loch through 
the sweeping boughs ; or the velvet sheen on their 
moss carpet. No wonder, if they lingered there 
till the best of a perfect fishing-day was wasted. 
And though the gruff old keaper growled under 
his breath “It’s a sail* pity,” it was probably 
more as a professional protest than because he 
thought the Sassenach’s laziness unnatural. Per- 
haps before 

Grizzling hairs his brain had cleared, 
and before he had learned to value aright the 
“worth of a lass,” Donald himself, at such a 
place and time, would scarcely have been more 
keen. 

When at last Mrs. Ramsay thought it was 
time to return, she did not affect to decline Os- 
wald’s offer of escort. She had no mind to trust 
herself alone at Kenlis again. Nevertheless, she 
seemed quite to have shaken off her fright of the x 
morning. Indeed, her companion flattered him- 
self that she was in rather better spirits than usu- 
al ; and there was not a trace of consciousness 
about her when she met George Anstruther at 
dinner. Neither in the latter’s x manner was 
there any visible alteration from 'his usual stiff 
formality. 

The Brancepeths arrived early on the following 
day ; and, as soon as she could get Laura to her- 
self in her boudoir, Blanche confided to her as 
much as she could recollect of the scene enacted 
in the library on the previous forenoon. La 
Reine was a good deal puzzled, it must be con- 
fessed; though she would by no means allow 
that Blanche’s terror had been any thing but 
absurd. 

“I always fancied he was very fond of you, 
in a fatherly way. Not that I believe much in 
fatherly attachments. They are very much like 
cousinly ones — a delusion and a snare. I have 
no doubt he meant to entrap you into a confi- 
dence ; only he mismanaged it rather clumsily. 
As for his going out of his mind, he’s no more 
chance of doing that than you or I, depend upon 
it. I don’t admit that disliking Alice Irving — 
supposing he does dislike her — is any proof of 
incipient insanity. If it were, more than one of 


120 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


us will want the camisole before long. For my 
part, I think the world would get on capitally 
without her ; but my thoughts don’t much affect 
the question, and I don’t see that Mr. Anstruth- 
er’s do either. Lettres de cachet are out of fash- 
ion nowadays — I’m not sure that it’s altogether 
a blessing — can he be thinking of making a raid 
on Drumour, and abducting her with the strong 
hand ? Or stay — perhaps he meditates marrying 
her in due form and getting her out of our way 
legally. That would be something like self-devo- 
tion ; wouldn’t it, dear ? Of course, he wouldn’t 
reckon — no man ever does — on a certain rejec- 
tion.” 

Her reckless rattle was not altogether without 
a purpose ; and it did indeed provoke Blanche 
to smile. 

“I shall think you mad, Queenie,” she said, 
“if you go on in that strain. As to what he 
meant, I haven’t the slightest idea : nothing, very 
probably, except to show that he was sorry for 
me ; but — I didn’t like his eyes. ” 

She shivered as she spoke the last words hesi- 
tatingly. 

“ I don’t suppose any one admires them,” the 
other returned composedly. “ But he can’t alter 
his eyes, any more than he can his nose, or chin, 
or any other feature in his face — and some eyes 
have a trick of scowling whenever they want to be 
expressive. It’s not so clear to me that I’ve been 
talking such utter Nonsense, after all. At any 
rate, Blanche, I won’t have you torment yourself 
with any ridiculous fancies. I’m c ertain you look 
a shade better than when you left town. Oswald 
Gauntlet must have taken great care of you on 
the journey — and since. I really think I admire 
that man more than any one I ever read of. It’s 
so nice to see him with his gentle ways, and to 
remember that if he had his deserts, he would be 
covered with crosses. And, of course — like all 
true devotion — it is unrequited. Often if I were 
to hold my tongue, he wouldn’t know that I was 
in the room. It’s very good of me never to have 
a jealous fit.” 

“ You’re always good,” Blanche said, as she 
nestled closer to her friend, “and so is he — you 
can hardly guess how good. Now let us talk of 
something else. You must have quantities to 
tell me. Begin about your Goodwood party.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ A bad look-out,” said Vere Alsager, as he 
shut down his window with a shiver, betimes on 
the morning of the Twelfth ; referring, you will 
understand, not so much to the landscape as to 
the prospect of sport. The wracks of cloud were 
drifting in from seaward, broken here and there, 
but not brightened by, 

Dreary gleams above the moorland. 
By-and-by, perhaps, when the fractious wind had 
done moaning, blinding mist would drive the 
keenest homeward ; but, at present, there was not 
even this excuse for shirking. 

“ We’ll have the hill to ourselves, at all events,” 
he muttered, rather sulkily, as he donned his 
frieze. “There’ll be no luncheon-foolery to- 
day.” 

It was not often, even in his thoughts, that 
Alsager did the gentler sex discourtesy ; but he 


was in a misogynic — not to say misanthropic — 
mood that morning. The state of the weather 
did not altogether account for this. Vere had 
not yet succeeded in laughing himself out of the 
weakness of pitying Blanche Ramsay. The sub- 
ject of their, conversation on a certain morning 
that you wot of, had never since been broached 
betwixt him and Mark, and the two, to all out- 
ward seeming, were just as good friends as ever ; 
nevertheless, though he had received no notice 
to quit, or even a hint at such a thing, Vere had 
sought and found fresh quarters. He had not 
as yet occupied them, but it was understood that 
he would return to his old ones no more. On 
his arrival overnight, he had been veiy much 
struck with the appearance of his hostess. So 
far from seeing any such improvement as Lady 
Laura had fancied, he detected a decisive change 
for the worse. Not only did Blanche look paler 
and thinner, but there was a sort of transparency 
in her complexion — which even to an unprofession- 
al eye is of evil augury — and it was evident that 
the slight duties of hospitality amongst intimates 
overtaxed her strength. 

From the sofa where Blanche reclined, listen- 
ing to, rather than sharing in, the low causerie 
carried on by Lady Laura and Gauntlet, Alsager’s 
glance turned toward another corner of the same 
room, where Mark leaned over the back of Miss 
Irving’s chair, commenting on, as it would seem, 
the contents of a portfolio of Highland photo- 
graphs that lay on her lap. Alice and her father 
had arrived the same day on a week’s visit. 

Alsager, perhaps, spoke only the simple truth, 
when he said that he would not have chosen the 
girl for a model. But, if he had never been fas- 
cinated by her beauty, he had always fully recog- 
nized it — never more fully than now. As she 
sat so quiet and demure — rarely unveiling her 
dangerous eyes ; still more rarely smiling with 
her rich ripe lips — the contrast with the pale, 
listless figure over yonder, was as striking as if 
she had seemed to exult insolently in her advan- 
tages. So it struck one at least of the spectators. 
The cold cynic — not greatly changed perchance, 
in the main points, from the man whom all Flor- 
ence cried shame upon years ago — was conscious 
just then of a glow of honest, unselfish anger. 
Truly— though she had fared ill in other ways, 
and though it helped not a whit — this poor 
Blanche had the luck of awaking sympathy with 
her sorrows in the unlikeliest quarters. 

This is why the moroseness of Alsager’s morn- 
ing mood was not entirely to be attributed to a 
falling glass. Those whom he met at breakfast 
seemed scarcely in blither humor. There was 
only a quartette of them— all men, of course. 
No one in his senses, who had no business abroad, 
would have made acquaintance with such a day 
an hour earlier than usual. However, there was 
no talk of staying at home, or giving the weather 
chance of clearing. Nothing but rheumatism or 
Cimmerian darkness would have kept Mr. Brance- 
peth off the hill on the Twelfth. Mark, though 
he shrugged his shoulders very expressively, took 
the inevitable bore with his wonted coolness; 
and a soaking more or less mattered little to 
Gauntlet or Alsager. So they sallied out in pairs, 
as in the previous year. 

The sport was very much what might have 
been expected, except that it lacked the excite- 
ment of finding the grouse wild. Even that , 


121 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


nuisance as it is, would have been better than 
seeing them get up sulkily, and drop down weari- 
ly, as if impressed with a morbid suicidal idea 
that life was not worth flying far or fast for. 
On the whole, it was dreary work — up-hill, in 
more senses than one — and the gillies themselves 
were rather glad when, as the several parties met 
for lunch, the thick white mist wreaths settled 
steadily down with such evident intention of 
holding the ground till nightfall, that no one 
controverted Mark’s suggestion that they had 
done enough for one day. As it was, if the 
corry beneath them had not been easy and 
straight travelling, they might have had some 
difficulty in groping their way down to the loch- 
side, and finding the boats that were to ferry 
them back. 

Northern twilight comes late, as youknow ; 
but on this afternoon, so far as the sun was con- 
cerned, it was a case of dead-reckoning ; and by 
six o’clock, any one standing on the terrace at 
Kenlis, might have fancied he was looking over 
the Thames in November — rather than over a 
Highland loch in August. If it was dark with- 
out, it was darker within doors — darkest of all, 
in a certain corridor, facing north, at the best of 
times but gloomily lighted by narrow windows 
holding scarcely more glass than stone. Like 
all the rest of the house, it was comfortably car- 
peted, and the embrasures were all cushioned; 
yet it was not a place where any body would be 
likely to linger. The family pictures lining the 
walls were not very enticing. No winsome 
dames or courtly cavaliers were to be found 
amongst them. These austere, hard-visaged 
worthies were evidently here in a sort of honora- 
ble banishment, instead of being actually buried 
in the lumber-room. 

Nevertheless, the north corridor seemed to 
have certain attractions for certain people at cer- 
tain seasons. It was nearly half an hour since 
Mark, passing through — quite accidentally, of 
course — had found Alice Irving sitting in one of 
the aforesaid embrasures. In that same spot the 
two still sat ; speaking but seldom, and when 
they spoke, seldom glancing at each other, but 
gazing out always on the mist and rain. At 
length, said Mark, after a steadier look in his 
companion’s face than he had indulged in hith- 
erto : 

“ Is it my fancy, or is it this dreary half-light 
that makes you look so pale, Alice? You are 
not ill ? Your hand is like ice.” 

The words were simple enough : just such as 
a man in all innocence might have spoken to any 
woman his familiar friend. They were quietly 
uttered too ; and yet they breathed a tender anxi- 
ety which, had they been addressed to herself, 
would have made Blanche Ramsay’s heart leap 
for joy. They were significant enough to Alice 
herself ; even without that other eloquence of the 
fingers twined in hers. 

She w r as not pale now ; but she shivered as she 
replied : 

“ No ; I am not ill — perhaps I have caught a 
slight cold — or, perhaps, I have been moping till 
I have begun to stagnate. I wasn’t brilliant 
when I came down this morning ; for I w as stupid 
enough to have a bad dream last night, and not 
to forget it when I w r oke.” 

“ A dream?” said Mark, inquiringly. 

* ‘ A dream, of course ; how should it be any 


thing else ? I should like to tell it you, though. 
I thought I was here, in Kenlis ; in a part of the 
castle I had never seen. It was a gallery, some- 
thing like this, only much— much— longer, and 
the walls, and ceiling, and floor were all of bare 
gray stone. I don’t know how it w^as lighted, 
for there were no windows that I saw, and no 
lamps anywhere ; but it w'as not dark, or any thing 
like dark ; for I could see the great door at the 
farther end. I felt somehow that I had no busi- 
ness there, and had lost myself : but if I could only 
get to the door, and if it were unlocked, I should 
find my way easily enough. Though I tried to 
make haste, I could only creep along, and the door 
seemed to grow farther off and smaller ; but I got 
to it at last, and it was locked — fast locked — or I 
could not stir it. I was so frightened that I want- 
ed to scream ; but I could only just whisper 
‘ Help !’ Almost before I had spoken the word, 
I heard a rustle like the rustle of a woollen dress 
outside, and then a laugh — a low, dreadful laugh. 
I wished— oh, how I wished ! — that I had let the 
door stay locked forever, rather than have called 
the ‘Brown Lady’ to open it. 1 knew it w’as 
she w r ho had laughed, before I saw, as the door 
swung ajar, the skirt of her dark robe. I fell for- 
ward on the flags, hiding my eyes in my hands, 
for somehow I felt they would be blighted if she 
looked upon my face ; but the next moment I 
knew she was bending over me, and I heard her 
laugh again, and say — don’t think I am roman- 
cing; I can remember every syllable — ‘Ye’ve 
thought to save your bonnie face. Keek in the 
glass W'hen ye rise.’ It w r as the agony of fear 
that w’oke me then. At first, I lay panting and 
trembling — too" thankful to find it w’as only a 
dream ; but, as my breath came back, I seemed 
to hear that same rustle of woollen stuff ; and 
then, my room-door closing, very stealthily. At 
first I w’as more frightened than ever, but then I 
said to myself, it was just the sort of thing one 
would be likely to imagine after such a dream. 
Presently I took courage to draw the curtain and 
peep out. The door was fast shut, and every 
thing — as far as I could see by the lamplight — 
exactly as J ulie had left it ; and so she said, 
when I asked her the question this morning. ‘ It 
must have been a fancy, and a very foolish one 
too — not half enough to account for my bad spirits 
to-day. I have heard of people playing cruel 
tricks ; but this is the last place on earth where 
one would fear such a thing.” 

“The very last,” Mark answered, frowning. 
“There’s not a man or w r oman here capable of 
a vulgar practical joke — even if they w’ould risk 
the consequences. But how came you to dream 
of such horrors ? I was not aware that you had 
ever heard of that absurd legend, or that any one 
— except an old crone or tw’o — believed in it. 
However, all things considered, I don’t wonder 
at it. No ; it must have been pure fancy ; but 
what with that and the dream, you may well look 
pale. It’s been such a weary day for you, too, 
my Alice.” 

Her hand still rested in his, and she did not 
resist when he drew her closer to his side ; nor 
reprove him for those two last guilty W’ords . She 
was in one of her reckless moods just then ; and 
something else, besides mere depression of spirits, 
had contributed to this. Alice was still sensi- 
tive in her pride, if not in her conscience ; and 
Laura Brancepeth’s cold civility had galled her 


122 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


all through that day keenly. It was so seldom 
that La Reine Gaillarde kept any one at a dis- 
tance, that reserve on her part was more signifi- 
cant than rudeness would have been in such a 
woman as Lady Peverell. 

“Yes; it was rather a dreary morning,” she 
said with a sigh. “I am very glad you were 
driven off the hill so soon ; papa hasn’t shown 
to-day. You see there was no one at home I 
cared for much — or, what is perhaps more to the 
purpose, who cared for me.” 

Mark smiled. He had seen enough of these 
feminine reprisals to guess what Alice had suf- 
fered, and at whose hands she had suffered it. 

“So they were not hospitable to you within- 
doors. Now, who was in fault, I wonder ?” 

She drew her hand away, though he would 
still have detained it — coloring deeply. 

“ Not Mrs. Ramsay, you may be sure ; she’s 
always much gentler and kinder than — than — I 
deserve.” 

“Then it was Lady Laura,” Mark said, with 
a certain contempt. 4 4 Nobody ever minds what 
she says or thinks. She would not have been 
so warlike if she had a flirtation of her own on 
hand. But she takes after Cleopatra in more 
ways than in the swarthy cheeks and bold black 
eyes ; and now, I suppose, 

It chafes her that she can not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with her eye 
That dull, cold-blooded gunner. 

Never mind, Alice ; perhaps some day you’ll 
choose your own company at Kenlis ; and then 
you needn’t be troubled with people who don’t 
care about you.” 

She rose up quickly. 

44 Hush ! you know I never like to hear you 
speak so, and I like it less than ever to-day. It 
will bring bad luck, if nothing worse. Now I 
must go : I’ve staid too long. I should not like 
to be missed down-stairs.” 

4 4 When it’s a question of proprieties, up-stairs 
or down-stairs, or in my lady’s chamber, there’s 
an end of all argument. It’s a pity you have 
overstaid your time. Perhaps we had better 
have kept the hill, after all.” 

She turned where she stood, and laid her hand 
on his arm ; looking up at him with such a soft- 
ness in her changeful eyes as he had never seen 
there yet. ' 

44 Unjust — unkind !” 

That was all she said : then her head drooped 
lower and lower, till it rested on his shoulder. 
Mark’s arm girt her waist ; and he too bent his 
head till his lips lighted oil her brow and there 
abode. 

I by no means wish to enlist your sympathies 
for Alice Irving ; but, in settling her sentence, 
certain things should be considered. That she 
had acted cruelly and basely in stealing — or in 
accepting, it matters not which — the treasure of 
another woman’s life — more basely and cruelly 
still in founding hopes on that other’s death — 
no casuist could dispute : yet these hopes were 
not mercenary. To prevent her father’s inter- 
ference, she had caused him to believe that a 
calculating ambition — rather than blind impulse 
— had guided her hitherto : but it w r as not so. 
Had Mark been landless and nameless she would 
still have been tempted — sorely tempted — to fol- 
low him to the world’s end. This unholy love 
of hers was as sincere, if it was not as abiding, 


as any that has been blessed at God’s altar ; and 
moreover, it was her first love. Strange enough, 
was it not, that just the same miracle should have 
been wrought in her case as in Blanche Ramsay’s, 
and that both should have been wrought by the 
same hand ? And yet it was not so strange.. 
We should know by this time that Detur digniori 
is about the last device that should be borne by 
celui qu'on aime. And then remember what Alice’s 
training had been. She had had no mother since 
she could lisp the name. Left to run wild in her 
own fashion, she had been kept ever since girl- 
hood by her father’s negligence — if not by his 
will — always within the glow of the furnace of 
temptation. Perhaps she had fared better than 
many would have done, in escaping hitherto — as 
she had, in very truth, escaped — without any se- 
rious scar. If the smell of fire still clung to her 
garments, was it wonderful ? 

This girl had had wonderfully little happiness 
in her life ; perhaps, with all her faults, rather 
less than her share — so little indeed, that some 
charitable Christians, if they knew all, might have 
held that her resting there contentedly was not 
absolutely an unpardonable sin. Recovering her 
self-possession, she withdrew herself from the 
half-embrace, and moved swiftly away. Mark 
knew better than to attempt to detain her. 

When he was alone, he turned again, pressing 
his forehead against the glass and his hand against 
the stone mullion, as though he wished by the 
cold contact to quiet the fever in his blood ; but 
when, shortly after, he sauntered into the library 
where most of the others were assembled, you 
would have judged from the slightly bored ex- 
pression of his face, that he had just had an 
interview with his factor. They had a great deal 
of music that evening, and, one way or other, 
every body was so much engaged that a brief ab- 
sence of Mr. Anstruthers was not noticed by any 
one of the party. He was not away more than a 
quarter of an hour, and returned just when Alice 
w'as beginning her last song. It was an old Bre- 
ton chanson, very rude and simple in its melody, 
but with wild, thrilling cadences exactly suited to 
her rich, flexible voice. The words matter noth- 
ing — indeed they were in patois — but the burden 
of the chant was “Farewell.” 

“I do hope it will be fine to-morrow,” Miss 
Irving said. 44 If it’s veiy bright and warm, 
could we not go out with the lunch ?” 

She looked rather hesitatingly at Laura Brance- 
peth ; but the appeal was by no means success- 
ful. 

“ You can do as you please,” La Reine an- 
swered. 44 1 shall stay and keep Blanche com- 
pany.” 

Alice bit her lip in anger — not more at the re- 
buff than because she felt she was coloring. 

“ Will you take me, papa ?” she asked. “Of 
course I can’t possibly go alone.” 

44 And why not ?” Lady Laura inquired coolly. 
44 Je n'en vois pas la difficult €. Above a certain 
degree of latitude, chaperones are not required. ” 

Irving did not like the turn of the conversa- 
tion ; but did not think fit to take up the glove 
in his daughter’s behalf just then ; so he answer- 
ed with his placid smile : 

“Certainly, child, I shall be very glad to squire 
you — if it’s any thing like a day.”* 

Then they separated for the night. 

I Laura Brancepeth, knowing what she knew, 


123 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


setting all suspicion aside — owed little charity to 
Alice Irving ; yet she would never have spoken 
or looked so hardly, if she could have foreseen 
what one hour would bring forth. 


CHAPTER NXXIX. 

One of the pleasantest rooms at Ivenlis, espe- 
cially under lamplight, was the smoking-room. 
It had formerly been used as a second library ; 
but of its studious aspect, there were few traces 
now. A great trophy of Eastern arms hung 
over the fireplace, and two or three bookcases of 
black oak were evidently left there rather as gar- 
nish for the walls, than for any studious purposes ; 
and in any of those lazy luxurious chairs work 
would have been impossible. Anstruther and 
Irving were playing piquet, and the other three 
men were discussing the prospect of the morrow, 
and of the season — glancing from time to time at 
the progress of the game, on which they had bets. 
Mr. Brancepeth was not among them, but in his 
own chamber, already sleeping the sleep of the 
just. 

Though they did not notice it much at the time, 
both Alsager and Gauntlet remembered afterward 
how strangely Anstruther looked that evening. 
He had accepted Irving’s challenge in that absent 
indifferent way to which reference has been made 
before, and he had not spoken a syllable since, 
beyond what was absolutely required in scoring ; 

. but that vigilant anxiety in his eyes was more re- 
markable than ever — only he seemed to be watch- 
ing, not his adversary or the game, but something 
as it were in the distance. 

The last hand was almost played ; for Irving, 
with a dash of triumph in his courtly smile, was 
about to declare a point and sequence that must 
needs have been decisive in his favor, when he 
dropped his cards and sprang to his feet, as did 
every man there present — Anstruther overturning 
the table as he rose. 

From overhead there came a terrible cry — 
something betwixt shriek and wail — significant, 
not of physical torture alone, but of utter despair 
— such a cry as the mere parting of soul and 
body would scarcely wring even from the weakest 
— such a cry as through Heaven’s mercy seldom 
startles the echoes of this our earth, though it 
may be familiar to those of the Place of Doom. 
In that awful utterance more than one who heard 
it seemed to recognize a voice that had witched 
their ears ere now with its glorious flood of mel- 
ody ; and more than one said within himself what 
Irving’s pale lips said aloud : 

“My God ! That was Alice’s scream !” 

Little as either of them liked the unhappy 
girl, as they sprang up the stairs together, Os- 
wald Gauntlet’s heart fluttered faster than it had 
done in its baptism of fire; and Vere Alsager 
felt a quiver of the nerves — such as might affect 
one forced against his will to witness some ghast- 
ly expen ment of surgery. 

Tottering and stumbling as he went, Irving 
followed at his best speed. The last to leave the 
room was George Anstruther. Dore might have 
caught a fresh idea from his face just then. This 
man was already numbered amongst those who 
are tormented — not before their time. Ramsay 
himself was across the hall before any of the oth- 


ers had left the smoking-room ; but, before he 
had mounted the first flight of the great oak 
stairs, there were hurrying feet in the main cor- 
ridor above, and shrieks of women — not like the 
cry that had startled them but now, nor uttered 
by the same voice — but rather of terror than of 
pain. He knew well enough in what room the 
tragedy, of whatsoever kind it might have been, 
was being enacted ; and as he came to the half- 
open* door, he met Laura Brancepeth on the 
threshold. La Reine looked fairly panic-stricken. 

“You mustn’t go in,” she said, closing the 
door behind her. “Don’t think of it : it is too 
horrible ! Her maid and mine are with her ; they 
will do all that can be done till a surgeon comes. 
Where does the nearest live ? Send for him in j 
stantly; you can give no help here.” 

‘ ‘ What has happened ?” Mark asked in a hard, 
dry whisper. He had to moisten his lips before 
he could accomplish even this. 

In a very few words she told him. 

Alice Irving was not given to cosmetics, not 
was there much temptation for such fraud. Paint 
or pearl-powder could have done little for her cleat 
complexion and delicate coloring, and she could 
well afford to let them stand on their merits ; but 
sometimes, especially in the autumn, when she 
was most exposed to sun and wind, simply as a 
precaution against tanning she would bathe het 
face and neck before going to rest with milk of 
roses, or some innocent lotion. She was begin- 
ning to do this that night when her maid left 
her. Before the liquid had time to dry, hei 
cheeks and throat began to smart and burn in j 
tolerably ; and in a few seconds they were cover j 
ed with an awful eruption — like an aggravation 
of erysipelas — that was not only skin-deep, but 
seemed to corrode the flesh. She flung the bot- 
tle from her — it was smashed to atoms where it 
fell — and sprang to her pier-glass: looking on 
the reflection therein, she cried aloud in her de- 
spair, as she would never have cried in her pain. 

Can you wonder at it ? It is well to prate and 
preach about the worthlessness of surface beauty ; 
but show me the woman who, without one in- 
stant’s preparation, will accept the change from 
fair to foul, from lovesome to laidly, unrepiningly, 
and I will bow before such a world’s wonder as 
neither we nor our fathers have known. 

Though she knew it was but a disguise that 
she could doff in her own good time, even Medea 
could not complete without a pang the hideous 
self-transformation that was to beguile the daugh- 
ters of Pelias ; when 

She poured 

Into the hollow of an Indian gourd 
A pale-green liquor, wherefrom there arose 
Such scent as o’er some poisonous valley blows 
Where naught but dull-scaled twining serpents dwell. 
Nor any more now could the Colchian smell 
The water-mint, the pine-trees, or the flower 
Of the heaped-up sweet odorous virgin’s bower. 

But shuddering, and with lips groy r n pale and wan, 

She took the gourd, and with shut eyes began 
Therefrom her body to anoint all o’er ; 

And this being done, she turned not any more 
Unto the woodland brook. 

While La Reine was speaking, and while Mark 
stared at her as if he only half realized her mean- 
ing, Irving came up behind. The rest had suf- 
fered him to pass them on the landing : Anstruth- 
er halted there ; and the others stood aloof in 
the corridor. 

“ You will go in,” Laura said, opening the door 


124 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY: OR, 


wide enough to let the father enter, and shutting 
it again behind him. In that brief instant Mark 
Ramsay heard and saw more than he is ever 
likely to forget : he heard a deep hoarse moan- 
ing like that of one choking in quinsy — he saw 
Alice Irving, grovelling prone on her face as she 
had grovelled in her dream. 

If, as they sat in yonder north window togeth- 
er, a jagged rift of flame had shot suddenly out 
of the low clouds and stricken down beside him 
the woman whose hand he held, Mark would not 
have felt half so horror-struck and helpless as he 
now did. Yet, as he turned to give orders to one 
of the servants, who were hurrying up by this 
time, about fetching a surgeon instantly, his face 
was marvellously calm — only it looked infinitely 
older. 

“ The restof you go down,” he went on. 4 4 This 
part of the house must be kept perfectly quiet, 
and all the help that is wanted at present is here ; 
unless— unless any one knows any thing of sur- 
gery.” 

Rather vacantly than with any apparent hope, 
as it seemed, of its being answered, his glance 
wandered from Alsager to Gauntlet, and rested 
at last upon Anstruther — standing still on the 
landing. All shook their heads ; but Anstruther 
averted his as he did so, and you might have seen 
the hand behind him clutch the oak balustrade, 

, as though, without some such support, he would 
have staggered. Mark noticed nothing of this ; 
but, as he turned away from the stairs again, he 
saw Laura Brancepeth start forward from the 
doorway, and heard her say : 

“Blanche! How could you be so rash? You’re 
not fit to leave your room — much less to be here. ” 

The next moment he was looking at his wife 
— fascinated, so to speak in spite of himself, by 
her strange expression. There had been a kind 
of horror a while ago even in Laura Brancepeth’s 
bold eyes, and, considering the temperament of 
the two, that this should have appeared in 
Blanche’s intensified was but natural : but why 
shpuld they betray a horror of remorse as well 
as a horror of fear ? And why should they turn 
with awful questioning toward George Anstruth- 
er’s still half-averted face? White, even down 
to the lips, as the lace on her dressing-robe, Mrs. 

' Ramsay stood panting and quivering ; but she 
never spoke till she drooped her head on La 
Reine’s shoulder, clasping her hands tightly round 
the other’s arm ; and only that one ear caught 
the whisper : 

“ God help us! I know what he meant now.” 

Laura started violently, and for a second or 
two she felt fainter than when she first looked 
on the ruin within. But the very perilousness 
of the situation— though she embraced it not 
wholly — nerved her to an effort. Bad as things 
were, she felt they might be worse yet. 

“ Hush !” she murmured swiftly. “ You don’t 
know Avhat mischief you may do.” Then she 
said aloud, 44 Let me take you back to your room, 
Blanche, while you can walk. It is madness to 
stay when you can’t help, and you know that 
every thing that is possible will be done. 1 don’t 
answer for keeping my wits about me, if you are 
taken ill to-night.” 

Mark Ramsay’s gaze followed the two as they 
moved slowly away. That he had some vague 
suspicions it was clear ; but he was in that state 
of bewilderment which causes a man, if he has 


any power of reasoning left, rather to mistrust 
than rely on his first impressions. After a pause, 
he said composedly enough, addressing himself to 
Alsager, 

4 4 1 think you had better all go down. I will 
stay here till Irving comes out. ” 

Was it only minutes that Mark sat there, star- 
ing at the door over against him, listening for a 
sound ever so slight, that should break the dead 
stillness ? Would it have been easier for him to 
bear, if he had guessed that it was for his sake 
Alice so wrestled with her agony as not to moan 
once above her breath since she knew him to be 
within hearing ? It is satisfactory to reflect that 
every iota of the punishment meted out to this 
man now had been thoroughly well earned. I 
am not sure that there was not in his own mind, 
just then, a consciousness that the retribution 
which, despite his fatalism, he had foreseen, if 
not dreaded, had overtaken him at last. But I 
am quite sure that such a consciousness did not 
make him more inclined to bow to the chastise- 
ment, or a whit less savagely bent on revenge to 
the uttermost on whoso had art or part therein. 
His wife knew something of it, he felt sure ; and, 
before the night was out, whatever she knew he 
would knoAV, or — 

Before he had thought out the threat, the door 
opened, and Irving came forth, his face wearing 
its courtly mask no longer, but distorted with 
grief and rage. 

“ Can you give no guess at the meaning of 
this devilry, or the author of it ?” he said hoarse- 
ly. ‘ ‘ The bottle’s smashed to atoms, and the 
hell-broth spilled ; but I rubbed my finger on the 
carpet where it was soaking. Look at that — and 
then guess how Alice looks as she lies there.” 

On the smooth, white flesh there was a swell- 
ing like an angry blain, and the inflammation was 
evidently spreading still. 

“Guess?” Mark retorted, shrinking back as 
he spoke. 44 Do you suppose if I could guess, 

I should be idling here ? But we’ll not sleep till 
we have found out something. That’s for our- 
selves ; but can nothing be done for her — noth- 
ing?” 

“ Nothing ; till the doctor comes,” Irving re- 
plied. ‘ 4 Cotton-wool dipped in iced water seems 
to relieve her, and they’re trying that now. She’ll 
be in a raging fever before morning, I suppose ; 
perhaps that’s the best thing that can happen to 
her. I’m not to go back till I bring the doctor ; 
and — and she begged of me so earnestly to take 
you down stairs, anywhere from here. You’ll 
come away, won’t you ? I’m going to my own 
room till I’m wanted. ” 

They parted at the stair-head, and Mark went 
straight to his own apartment, where lights were 
always burning at; this time. He remained there 
perhaps twenty minutes, evidently in deep thought. 
Then he went up stairs again, and passed along the 
main corridor without lingering for a second to 
listen at the threshold of Alice’s chamber, and 
so came to a door which he opened softly with- 
out knocking. It led into a room — half dress- 
ing-room, half boudoir — w r here he found, as he 
had expected, his wife and Laura Brancepeth. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


125 


CHAPTER XL. 

You may remember that in the early days of 
their acquaintance, La Reine had decided that 
Mark Ramsay was not so black as he had been 
‘ painted. But of late she had come to the con- 
clusion that the original coloring of the fancy por- 
trait was about correct, and he was as thorough- 
ly out of favor with her, as it is possible to con- 
ceive. The reason was simple enough. Her 
prejudices against Mark only vanished, when she 
saw that he had both the will and the power to 
make Blanche perfectly happy ; and, when he 
ceased to trouble himself about this, they re- 
turned with double force. But, for every one’s 
sake, she took special care to conceal her dislike ; 
and before the world they were the best possible 
friends. With all this, the very last person that 
Laura would have wished to see enter the room 
at that moment was Mark Ramsay. 

She had been trying her best to soothe Blanche ; 
telling her that Alice’s injuries might, after all, 
be only superficial and temporary — that, at any 
rate, they must have been caused by some terri- 
ble mistake in the ingredients of the lotion — that 
it was absolute insanity to impute such a crime 
to George Anstruther. Blanche had listened, 
and seemed to wish to be persuaded, perhaps be- 
cause she was too weak to argue ; and she was 
lying still now, with her eyes half closed, hold- 
ing Laura’s hand fast. She opened her eyes 
when her husband entered, and started up. 

If you had seen Mark’ face just then, you 
would not have wondered at her alarm : there 
was a fell louring there worse than overt men- 
ace ; and somehow it was evident that he was 
here with a purpose — and not a kindly one. It 
was to La Reine he first addressed himself. 

“I am sorry to disturb you; but I want to 
say a few words to Blanche alone. I won’t ask 
you to leave us for more than ten minutes, or to 
go farther than the next room.” 

Laura was sorely tempted to rebel. It seemed 
to her little less than cruelty, to leave fhat weak, 
fluttering creature to fight her own battle ; for 
one glance at Mark’s face had told her that his 
errand was not peace. But, unless there is mat- 
ter for the Divorce Court’s handling, it is very 
hard for any third person to hinder a husband 
from a private interview with the woman who 
has sworn to honor and obey him. Even La 
Reine was constrained to yield to the force of 
# circumstances ; but, as she rose, she kissed her 
friend, whispering, - 

“ There’s nothing to be frightened at, darling. 
I shall be quite close by.” 

Then she turned to Mark. 

“ You will be careful, won’t you? She has 
been so shaken already to-night.” 

As she said this, there was a pleading, not 
often seen, in her haughty eyes ; but Ramsay did 
not seem to notice either the glance or the 
words as he opened the door for her to pass into 
the sleeping-room beyond, and closed it behind 
her carefully. Then* he came back and stood 
gazing down at his wife as she lay — always with 
the same darkness on his face — till Blanche 
could bear the suspense no longer. 

“What is it, Mark?” she cried out; “what 
have I done? It is too cruel to frighten me 
so.” 

Was it possible that the hard, icy voice that 


answered her could ever have whispered “ Bian- 
chetta?” 

“ I do not know what you may have done — I do 
not say that in your own person you have done any 
thing. But I say you can help to bring guilt 
home to others: and this help you will hardly 
refuse me. I have no time for paltering. Will 
you tell me at once-^not what you know — but 
what you guess about this affair ?” 

She trembled in every limb, as she turned her 
face away, till it was half hid on the pillows. 

“ What can I tell you ? How could I guess ? 
Oh, Mark, it’s not possible you suspect any one 
here of having contrived this fearful thing ? What 
earthly motive could there have been ?” 

She had risen up in her eagerness, and would 
have caught his hand in both her own, but he 
drew back out of her reach. 

‘ ‘ I have come here to ask questions, not to 
answer them ; but I will answer this. Yes : I do 
suspect — and more than suspect. I have my 
choice between believing in a miracle, and believ- 
ing that this devil’s work was planned and 
wrought by some one under this roof. No mo- 
tive? Is it so unlikely that you should have 
found a friend shrewd enough to guess that the 
spoiling of Alice Irving’s face would please you, 
and devoted enough — that’s the word, I suppose 
— to accomplish it ?” 

Soft and yielding as she was by nature, and 
weakened moreover by long illness, she would 
not let the insult pass quite unresisted. 

“ I have not deserved this,” she said, more 
firmly. “ What right had any one to suppose 
that I should rejoice in such a crime? And 
that you, of all people, should hint at it ! Ah ! 
Mark — ” She broke down with a sob. 

He laughed out loud ; and Laura Brancepeth 
within, hearing that laugh, drew closer to the 
door dividing them. 

“No reason? — Not if they guessed that, for 
this year past, there has been but one face in all 
the world for me — the face that has been marred 
to-night? The end sanctifies the means, you 
know ; and what could be a holier end than bring- 
ing husband and wife together again? They 
put Dunstan in the Calendar for searing a woman’s 
face with hot irons. Why should they not do as 
much for your instrument ? You will not help 
him by equivocating, I warn you.” 

She was fairly roused at last. Did not George 
Anstruther deserve threefold better at her hands 
than this man, who, not content with neglect and 
treachery, must flout her with the insolent avowal 
of his sin ? Why should she give up a friend, 
howsoever guilty, to the tender mercies of one 
who would not show even the mercy of allowing 
her to ignore — or seem to ignore — her wrongs ? 
She looked up at her husband — not quailing or 
flinching now. 

“ Such words, spoken by you to me, are simply 
cowardly. I never sought your love ; but, since I 
accepted it, I have tried hard to keep it— how 
hard, you know as well as I — and when I thought 
I had lost it, I never reproached you. I only 
hoped that God would have pity, and give it me 
back, or let me die. And He has had pity ; for I 
believe I am dying, and I believe you know this. 
You might have had patience a little longer : but, 
if I were to live to grow old, you and I would be 
as much apart, from this minute, as if one of us 
were buried. There need be no open esclcindre 


12 G 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


unless you wish it : I care little which way you 
decide. I will never knowingly see Alice Irving 
again : yet no one can be sorrier than I am for 
this horrible accident — I believe it is an accident 
— at least, I can not help you to any other con- 
clusion.” 

Her voice never faltered once, though the dark- 
ness on Mark Ramsay’s face waxed more malign 
with every word she spoke. He strode closer to 
the sofa, and caught Blanche by the wrist — not 
crushing it at all ; but holding it lightly in his 
fingers, as if he only wished to fix her attention. 

‘ ‘ So you won’t turn king’s evidence ?” he said. 
“Well, I gave you the chance, remember. It’ll 
be time enough to settle our conjugal relations 
when to-night’s account is balanced. Now, I’m 
going to deal with your champion. Perhaps he’ll 
prove more tractable than his mistress.” 

The momentary excitement had passed off ; 
and fear — not so much for herself as for others — 
began to master her again. 

“ For pity’s sake don’t leave me so !” she mur- 
mured. “You are under some dreadful mistake 
— I can’t even guess whom you are alluding to. ” 

“ Not to George Anstruther, of course. Bah ! 
I thought, you were better at dissembling. Why, 
your eyes betrayed you in the corridor, and your 
pulse betrays you now.” 

He flung her hand away as he spoke, and 
turned to go ; but Blanche caught him fast, and 
held him so that he could not wrench himself 
loose till she had slipped down before him on her 
knees. She had no breath to speak ; but the 
agony of her upward look ought to have pleaded 
for her more effectually than any prayer. All at 
once a change like death swept across her face ; 
and Mark, stooping, was just in time to catch her 
before her head struck the floor. His own face 
never softened a whit ; but he laid the senseless 
form on the sofa as gently as if he had still loved 
it; raising his voice whilst he did so, to call 
Laura Brancepeth. 

As La Reine advanced quickly, you might have 
seen that she had done with intercession ; for her 
eyes dissembled no longer her aversion and scorn. 

“So you have killed her!” she said low and 
bitterly ; “and that is what you. came to do. I 
half suspected it.” 

They had flung aside conventional courtesies, 
these two — as men on the verge of mortal duel 
cast away cumbersome garments. As Mark 
lifted his head their glances crossed like sword^. 

“I have done no murder — as yet; and what 
is more, Lady Laura, I have used no poison- 
practice, which, considering the fashion of the 
house, is perhaps remarkable. You’ll find Mrs. 
Ramsay has only fainted ; but I doubt if I can be 
much use in recovering her. I’ll send her maid 
here at once. You need not fear my disturbing 
you any more to-night.” 

And so he went out. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

When Alsager and Gauntlet got back to the 
smoking-room, both were too thoroughly unset- 
tled to think of going to rest ; and it was as well 
to watch there as elsewhere. There was no 
danger of their voices being overheard : yet it 
was under their breath that they spoke of what 
had happened above. 


“It’s the most horrible thing I ever heard of,” 
Oswald said ; “and it’s so utterly inexplicable. 
There’s an infernal ingenuity about it that don’t 
look like a servant’s trick. Her maid is a 
Frenchwoman, to be sure; but why should she 
have borne malice — such malice too?” 

“Julie’s perfectly devoted to her mistress, I 
believe,” Yere answered. “No ; it was no serv- 
ant’s work, you may be sure of that.” 

There was a kind of intelligence in his face, 
that made the other ask quickly — 

“ Then whose work was it ? You have a sus- 
picion, I’m certain.” 

“ Scarcely a suspicion — only a vague idea 
which I should be sorry to encourage. I don’t 
know that I ought to mention it. Well, if there’s 
no further cause to justify it, you will consider this 
unsaid. I am more than half afraid Anstruther 
knows more of this matter than he would care to 
confess.” 

“ Anstruther !” Gauntlet repeated in profound 
amazement. “What on earth makes you pitch 
on that harmless, old-fashioned creature?” 

“I’ll tell you,” Alsager said, sinking his voice 
still lower. “ Did you ever notice all those flecks 
and stains on his hands ? I did, long ago, and 
wondered how they came there — for his neatness 
in other respects is quite remarkable — till Mrs. 
Ramsay explained it by saying he was a great 
chemist. He spent half his life in India; and 
our poisoners are the merest bunglers compared 
with the Easterns. They have all manner of 
damnable herbs and plants and juices out there, 
that we know nothing of. The Begums, if I re- 
member right, were often quite as clever at dis- 
figuring as in slaughtering their rivals. You 
must have heard a dozen such stories yourself.” 

Gauntlet nodded his head. 

‘ ‘ I see your drift now ; and there’s a shadow of 
circumstantial evidence, certainly. But there’s 
an absolute want of motive — unless you hold ifr 
to be a case of malignant monomania. We read 
of such things. There was a cure in Belgium who 
used to poison the Communion wine.” 

Alsager looked searchingly at the other for 
some seconds before he answered. 

“An absolute want of motive ? And you say 
this. I confess you surprise me. Perhaps I ought 
not to have begun such frank speaking ; but as 
it is begun surely it isn’t worth while beating 
about the bush. I believe you have known Mrs. 
Ramsay from her childhood. It is scarcely more 
than a year since I made her acquaintance ; and • 
yet I guessed, some months ago, that all the grief 
which is wearing her life out was caused by the 
face that has been spoiled to-night. Ay ! And 
I guessed besides that yonder harmless, old- 
fashioned creature, to do her a kindness or a 
pleasure, would execute what neither of us would 
have nerve to plan.” 

Oswald Gauntlet leaped up from his chair with 
a bitter oath. 

“And you dare to insinuate that Blanche 
Ramsay could be privy to such loathsome work, 
or that it was to serve her that it was done ?” 

“Sit down,” Alsager said with his rire sous 
cape; “ it’s pure waste of chivalry. Insinuations 
are not much in my line ; and I’m just as inca- 
pable of imputing connivance in such iniquity to 
Mrs. Ramsay, as you are. Even if it had ever 
been otherwise, I should have done her justice 
after what I saw to-night. I wonder you didn’t 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


see it too. You’re not so sharp-sighted as I took 
you to be. You didn’t remark the way she looked 
at Anstruther in the corridor, or you would have 
thought, as I did, that her suspicions, at all events, 
went straight to the mark, and had not far to 
travel. But there never was such a horror on 
the face of any accomplice, ever so remote, as 
was written then in hers.” 

“I beg your pardon,’’ Gauntlet said rather 
confusedly; “ I totally misunderstood you. But 
if there was no complicity on her part — and of 
course there was none — why should she have sus- 
pected him more than you or me ?” 

“Ah! there I’m hopelessly at fault. Some 
vague threat of his, perhaps, or even a look in 
his eyes, which she remembered and interpreted 
when it was too late. I told you from the first 
my clue was a very slight one, and it may snap 
at any moment. I only wish it may. If Mark 
should get hold of it, and follow it up, there’ll be 
worse work before morning than these old stones 
have seen for many a day.” 

“What do you mean?” Oswald asked with 
some impatience. “ Can’t you speak plainer ?” 

“There’ll be murder,” the other retorted — 
“ neither more nor less. That’s what I mean. 
I hope that’s plain-speaking enough for you? 
Well : we can only wait and see. On the whole, 
this is the Twelfth that I shall not mark with a 
white stone in my calendar.” 

Then there ensued a long silence. 

When those two went down to the smoking- 
room, Anstruther betook himself to his own 
chamber, which lay at the end of a passage lead- 
ing out of the main corridor. He locked the 
door as he entered — so hastily, that the key was 
turned before he was aware that he was not alone. 
Under ordinary circumstances his valet’s pres- 
ence there would have seemed very natural ; but 
Mr. Anstruther at that moment desired solitude 
above all things ; and he was about to bid the 
man depart rather sharply, when a glance at the 
other’s face checked and changed his intention. 

It was a countenance of the ordinary plebeian 
type — not remarkable for intelligence, and rather 
good-humored than morose in its habitual cast ; 
but it was entirely transfigured now by a strange 
expression of mingled cunning and fear. The 
latter seemed at first to predominate ; for it was 
some time before he managed to answer his mas- 
ter’s question as to what he wanted. 

“I want to speak to you,” he said at last, 
“ about — about — my own matters ; and about — 
something else.” 

He jerked his thumb toward the main corri- 
dor. There was a significance about the gesture, 
which, no more than the omission of all form of 
address, was not lost upon Mr. Anstruther. His 
brows, contracted already, were bent a little more 
heavily ; but there was no other sign of emotion 
as he sat down rather wearily, and in his curtest 
manner bade the man say out his say, and be 
quick about it ; for he wanted to be alone. 

“ The sooner the better, as far as I’m con- 
cerned,” the other retorted. It was quite evi- 
dent that he was too frightened to be civil, and 
had been providing himself with Dutch courage 
to boot. “ I’ve come to give you warning— no 
month’s notice, or nonsense of that sort. I wish 
to go at once ; and I mean to !” 

“Is that all?” Anstruther asked indifferently. 

1 ‘ There need be no difficulty about it. I suppose 


127 

| you know your own mind, though you have been 
drinking.” 

“Not all — nor half all,” the man rejoined 
with a scowl. Anstruther was not popular with 
his inferiors, and perhaps the valet was not sorry 
of a chance of venting some suppressed spleen. 
“I mean to have something more than my 
wages and my fare back to town. Now, you’re 
going to say that I haven’t a claim even to that 
much in law! D — n your law! I wonder 
what the law would think of such work as you’ve 
been doing to-night ?” 

Always in the same indifferent manner, An- 
struther answered. 

“ You mean to imply that I am accountable 
for Miss Irving’s accident ?” 

“Imply?” Prescott snarled. “Yes; I do 
‘mean to imply.’ Do you suppose I’m fool 
enough to speak as I have now without proofs. 
Ah ! proofs enough to bring you to the gallows, 
if it’s a hanging matter ; and if it isn’t, it ought 
to be. Would you like to know what they are ? 
Well : bad as you are, you’ve a right to look at 
your goods before you buy ’em. I began to sus- 
pect there was something up, when you got so 
infernally close, and fond of working alone at 
the chemicals. It’s a pity you never thought of 
locking the shop up when you left it. I used to 
ferret about there when you were out riding ; 
and one day I came on a vial hid up in a corner, 
half full of a curious whitish liquor with hardly 
any smell ; but what there was, was unlike any 
thing I had ever smelt before. I just wetted the 
tip of my finger with the stopper, and I thought 
I’d had enough of experiments for one day — I 
dare say you guess why. I put the vial back, 
and I didn’t see it again for ever so long, though 
I’ye looked for it often enough. But I could 
swear to the smell again anywhere ; and so you’d 
find, if you were to go with me into the poor 
young lady’s room yonder.” 

“ A link of evidence, certainly ; but only one, 
and not enough to convict.” 

Anstruther spoke with the discrimination of a 
man accustomed to weigh testimony, and with 
no other interest in the case than that which an 
upright judge might feel. 

“Ah! but suppose it’s not the only one !” the 
other went on in malignant triumph. “ Suppose 
I’d noticed how queer you looked, and how your 
hand shook when you were dressing to-night, 
and suspected something was coming off — though 
I’d clean forgotten the bottle ? And suppose I’d 
been in this room somewhere between nine and 
ten, and, hearing your step in the passage, had 
hidden behind the window-curtains, and seen you 
take something, devilish like that same vial, out 
of the dispatch-box that has no key except the 
one you wear ; and that I’d watched you leave 
the room and come back in five minutes or so, 
with a queerer look on your face than ever, and 
push into the heart of the fire something that 
cracked and spluttered — lucky the day turned 
chilly, wasn’t it? — and then pretty nearly empty 
that pocket-flask — you, who are so mealy-mouth- 
ed about a drop of liquor, too ! Just suppose all 
this — and then say what you think of the case. 
I’d bet you’ve hung men on less.” 

Still not a muscle in George Anstruthcr’s face 
moved ; but there came an expression into his 
eyes, that made Prescott resolve to keep hence- 
forth at least the width of the table betwixt th<jm. 


128 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


*‘The evidence is strong,” he said; “and 
you are quite right in supposing that in my time 
I’ve been satisfied with less. That’s nothing to 
the point. If this case should come into court, 
my line of defense would be very simple and 
easy. I should affirm that, finding you in my 
room drunk and insolent, I dismissed you on the 
spot ; and that you had trumped up this charge 
to revenge yourself. The testimony of a dis- 
charged servant is usually sifted rather severely. 
It would come to a question of character, after 
all. There has never been a whisper against 
mine : you know best if your own would bear 
rigid looking into ; from what I have heard of 
your antecedents, I should say — not. I don’t say 
that I should wish it to come into court. You 
want hush-money, of course ; but you had better 
take all this into consideration in fixing your 
terms.” 

Prescott bit his lip sulkily. He was not alto- 
gether prepared for the case assuming this com- 
plexion, and he could not deny that it was a 
probable one. 

“ I don’t know about my evidence satisfying a 
jury,” he grumbled. “ Mr. Ramsay here is the 
nearest magistrate ; and it’s more than likely it 
would satisfy him.” 

It was a random shaft, but it told far beyond 
the expectations of the archer. Whether it was 
that some natural instinct warned George An- 
struther of the deadly peril in which he would 
stand if thus confronted with Mark Ramsay ; or 
whether, having nerved himself to endure a dis- 
tant though perhaps certain penalty, he shrank 
appalled from swift and instant retribution, 
would be hard to say. For myself, I incline to 
the latter interpretation. There are numberless 
instances of hardier criminals than he being ut- 
terly cowed by the news that the days of grace 
betwixt them and their doom were shortened to 
hours. Be this as it may, his countenance had 
lost its judicial coolness, and his voice shook with 
something else than anger as he required the 
other to “ name his price at once without further 
paltering.” 

“It’s worth five thousand — well worth it,” 
Prescott replied doggedly; “but as you’re not 
made of money, and I want it in a hurry, we’ll 
say four. If you’ve not got it at your banker’s 
you can get it fast enough in London ; and you 
would leave this to-morrow anyhow. I’ll go 
with you so far, for the look of the thing ; but the 
other thousand wouldn’t tempt me to stop the 
month out in your service — no, nor hardly to 
brush your clothes again.” 

Though for mere greed this man was willing 
to connive at crime, he spoke those words with 
a loathing palpably sincere. Amid all the tur- 
moil raging within him, Anstruther was sensible 
of a sharper pang, as he felt that even such a 
creature as this had a right to shrink from him 
now. 

“ You shall have your money,” he said, speak- 
ing with an effort. “ You’ll trust me till I can 
raise it, I presume ?” 

“Yes : I’ll trust you. You daren’t break faith 
with me ; and I believe you are honest in your 
way. I’d give something to know what set you 
on this game.” 

“Will you go now?” 

That was all Anstruther said ; and the words 
came indistinctly through his hands that cover- 


ed his face, as he rested his elbows on the table : 
the valet was only too glad to find himself safe 
outside in the passage, with his object attained. 
Lotag after his departure Anstruther sat motion- 
less in that same position. At length he rose, 
and unlocked the dispatch-box to which Prescott 
had alluded. From this he took out a tiny sil- 
ver tube — like the porte-couleurs used by artists 
— which he dropped into his pocket, and then 
resumed his former attitude. 

It was not till the door opened again that he 
lifted his head. 

Was it worth while to have endured the ago- 
ny of abasement — to have bought shameful 
safety with a bribe — to have been made the 
mock of his own hireling — only to be set face to 
face with Mark Ramsay before the night was out ? 


CHAPTER XLII. 

With the average of mankind — to woman- 
kind the aphorism scarcely applies — audacity, or 
even coolness, under peculiar circumstances is 
very much a question of experience. 

There flourishes even now down in the West, 
a certain divine, eminent in learning, piety, and 
charity; who became more famous than ever 
from the manner in which he bore himself in 
time of sore trial. The town in which he min- 
istered was visited by one of those epidemics 
that are scarcely less dreadful than the ancient 
Plagues. At last there was such a panic in the 
place, that all, who could by any means escape, 
fled therefrom ; some even of the doctors came 
reluctantly to their duties, if they did not abso- 
lutely shirk them. Now the good parson not 
only put far away from him all temptation — and 
temptations were not lacking — to quit his post ; 
but labored more strenuously than ever. Late 
and early he might have been found with a 
countenance, if not cheerful, always serene, in 
such fearful straits as were Aaron’s, when lie 
swung the censer of atonement in the wilderness 
of Paran. 

_ When at^pngth — partly by fever, partly by fa- 
tigue — he was brought so low that all, himself 
included, believed his hours w'ere numbered, he 
waited for death, they say, not less composedly 
than he would have waited for sleep. Two or 
three years later, this same divine was involved 
in a terrible railway accident, from which he es- 
caped comparatively unhurt ; though his situa- 
tion for some time was critical in the extreme. 
He preached a very eloquent sermon afterward, 
wherein he described his own sensations at 
length ; and a more beautiful illustration of 
submissive trust in Providence could hardly be 
conceived. He was not apt to vaunt himself ; 
and perchance, by some mysterious process of 
thought, had come to believe that he had in 
very truth felt what he described. Nevertheless, S 
according to the testimony of eye-witnesses, 
during that period of peril he did nothing but 
wail and babble incoherently — being fairly dis- 
traught with fear. 

As the strongest antithesis to this godly per- 
son, take Cecil Grantley. He would fly, like a 
timid hare, from the vicinity of the mildest form 
of scarlatina; and, when he joins in the “pur- 
suit,” requires much priming before he will ne- 
gotiate a sheep-hurdle. Not long ago, he got 


120 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


into a very awkward scrape, the nature of which 
matters not. Up to a certain point he had to 
deal with feminine adversaries ; and, thus far, 
his trepidations were simply pusillanimous. Sud- 
denly a fresh personage appeared on the scene 
— a most truculent personage, too : hut Cecil 
brightened up directly. 

“It’s all right now,” he said. “We’ve got a 
man into the wrangle.” And thenceforth he 
carried the thing with a high hand. 

Now George Anstruther perhaps was not, 
physically or morally, more of a coward than 
his fellows ; but in the even tenor of his life he 
hadhardly ever been proved by any thing like 
personal danger. In those days — it was before 
the Mutiny — “the gentle Hindoo” seldom be- 
lied his character. For many years, the Indian 
judge had been surrounded by people who 
would no more have dreamed of menacing him, 
even in gesture, than of insulting a statue of 
Siva. A canter along an indifferent road was 
about the roughest exercise he had ever indulged 
in : he considered the honor of the first spear 
by no means worth the risk of broken bones ; 
and would go a mile round, sooner than scram- 
ble across a moderate nullah — let alone leaping 
it. Excitement of any sort he considered un- 
wholesome and irrational — the excitement of 
peril most irrational of all. Whilst his villainous 
scheme was still in the germ, he had counted the 
cost and resolved to pay it ; and when he grew 
too familiar with the idea to shrink from the 
purposed ati’ocity, he never lost sight of the 
probable consequences to himself. He knew 
that the mere fact of his predilection for chem- 
istry would be sure to attract suspicion sooner or 
later ; and moreover, though difficult, it might 
not be impossible for an analyst to determine 
from what precise region the venomous ingredi- 
ents must have been brought. Alsager’s sur- 
mises were right. It was during his sojourn in 
India that Anstruther had obtained these. He 
had indeed confiscated them, after they had been 
employed in a similar disfigurement. 

He had taken all possible precaution, to be 
sure; and, with average luck, tjie chain of cir- 
cumstantial evidence linking him with the crime 
must needs be weak. At first, he thought lie 
had prospered beyond his hopes ; fo r, tho ugh he 
was last to enter the corridor, he was there soon 
enough to hear Laura Brancepeth speak of the 
broken vial. There was little fear of analytical 
tests after that. Then had come the blow which 
had put all his calculations to the rout. It had 
never entered his head, that stolid William Pres- 
cott would be shrewd enough and patient 
enough to play the spy — and play it to such fa- 
tal purpose. But, though taken by surprise, he 
kept his self-possession admirably till he heard 
that threat — it was only half-intended as a 
threat, after all — about Mark Ramsay. 

It was not the magistrate he dreaded ; but the 
man, who, if half the tales were true, had tram- 
pled under foot written and unwritten laws, on 
less provocation than this, ere now ; and who 
would scarcely be less scrupulous in working out 
his revenge, than he had always shown himself 
in working out his desire. It was this which 
made George Anstruther accept extortion with- 
out bargaining ; and it was this which sent such 
a shiver through his blood, when he looked up 
and saw who stood on the threshold. 

I 


With eyes wide open and vacant, like a sleep- 
walker’s, he stared at his visitor, as the other 
closed the door softly and turned the key, and 
then came nearer, till he stood just where Pres- 
cott had been standing a while ago. There was 
nothing positively alarming in his face : it was 
scarcely so lowering as when he entered his wife’s 
dressing-room ; but it was even more set. For 
perhaps half a minute, Mark watched in silence 
the workings of the other’s countenance ; they 
would have told him enough, if his suspicions 
had slumbered till now. Then he said with a 
strange quietness : 

“ You can guess why I have come here ?” 

The first syllables of Anstruther’s reply were 
scarcely intelligible ; but the last were uttered 
more distinctly. 

“I can not guess. Has — has it any thing to 
do with the — the — accident of this evening ?” 

“ Every thing to do with the — accident : we’ll 
call it so for the present. You remember I ask- 
ed in the corridor just now, whether any one 
knew any thing of surgery ; and you shook your 
head like the rest. Perhaps you were taken by 
surprise, and hadn’t time to think over your re- 
sources. It may be hours before the doctor comes, 
and every second may be precious. Chemists, 
such as you are, often carry about strange drugs 
with them ; and, if you have no drugs, you have 
knowledge. They say all poisons have an anti- 
dote. Is there none to this?” 

Anstruther could hardly believe his ears. 
Was it possible that the person he so dreaded 
had not come to accuse or condemn, but only to 
ask for such succor as any man has a right to 
expect from the stranger sojourning within his 
gates ? But the first flush of glad surprise was 
checked by a cold sense of helplessness — by a 
feeling that, though the door of escape stood 
wide, he could not pass through. 

It is not too much to say, that George An- 
struther would have given up almost any thing, 
shout ©f his heart’s blood, to have had the pow- 
er of undoing his deed. Fear of the consequen- 
ces, doubtless, chiefly swayed him ; but there was 
a tingeof remorse too, howsoever faint : moreover, 
a dreary consciousness that his crime was futile, 
and that not one doit of the price for which he 
had sold himself would ever be paid, had crept 
over him since, yonder in the corridor, glancing 
up once sidelong and stealthily, he met the hor- 
ror of Blanche Ramsay’s eyes. It was not to 
be. He knew right well that though, besides 
the risk of fever, there was little danger of life 
from his devilish drugs, their effects were past 
the art of healing ; and time would never ef- 
face, even if it should faintly mitigate, the hide- 
ous scars. The face that was so dangerous yes- 
terday never again would wake passion or envy. 
For Alice Irving there would be no more place 
amongst fair women henceforth, than there is 
for a lazar among his kind. Though he dared 
not avow all this, he dared not speak contrariwise. 

“I w r ould gladly help you,” he said — “ most 
gladly. But I have small skill in such matters, 
and I might do more harm than good in advis- 
ing. They have tried cold applications, I sup- 
pose ? That ought to give temporary relief, and 
I trust the surgeon will be here very soon.” 

Mark’s gaze dw r elt on the speaker, still rather 
earnestly than threateningly. 

“ Are you quite sure you can suggest nothing ? 


130 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


Mind : I ask you this — knowing that mere medi- 
cal skill will avail little. Think again. It is 
a question of life and death.” 

The keen perception that had served Anstruth- 
er well in ordinary matters quite failed him here : 
from that strange quietness of Mark’s manner, 
he drew encouragement when he ought to have 
drawn warning. 

“ I do mot know what others can do,” he said 
with a certain haughtiness ; “ but I am quite sure 
that I can do nothing. If I had any doubt on 
the subject, I should not have wanted asking 
twice.” 

“ I’ll give you one more chance,” Mark said, 
speaking very low. “Not for your own sake; 
but for hers who lies yonder. I know as well 
who has done this deed, as if I had watched you 
drop in the poison. Don’t waste time in denial 
— it may be shorter than you think — but listen 
to me. If you can hold out any certain hope 
that what has been done can be undone — quite 
undone — you shall go forth from this house 
harmless ; and you shall never be troubled more 
by me or mine ; and, if you bear me any grudge, 
you may set your foot on my neck noiv, if you 
please. Lying won’t help you. I’ll look into 
your eyes while you answer.” 

All his terrors came back upon Anstrutlier like 
a wave in reflux ; yet he, too, felt that lying or 
evasion would be useless. He spoke like the 
possessed of old time, whose utterances were not 
after their own will, but according to the spirit 
within them. 

“ Her life is safe : I can give no other hope.” 

Mark breathed long and deep, as gymnasts 
do preparing for some great feat of strength or 
skill. 

“Then half my errand is done. I came to 
seek help here, as I would have sought it in hell, 
if I had known the road there ; and I would 
sooner have given the devil my soul, than you 
your freedom, in exchange : but I would haA'e 
given it. There was something else though. If 
there was no help to be wrung from you, I came 
—to kill you.” 

Mark Ramsay’s voice was a proverbially pleas- 
ant one. There wag nothing jarring in the tone 
of those last three words. If an actor had de- 
livered' them on any stage, the house would have 
murmured, justly enough, at a good “point” 
being spoiled. A very quiet reading, even of 
Hamlet, rarely succeeds. But then, you see, it 
was a singularly select audience to which Ram- 
say was playing, and he did not trouble himself 
to study effects. In sober truth, there was a 
savage earnestness there, that could never have 
been conveyed by the thunderous declamation 
that rends a passion to tatters ; and so the soli- 
tary witness interpreted it, as he sprang up with 
a white terror on his face, glaring round him in 
a wild hopeless way. Yes — hopeless: for, wheth- 
er by chance or design, Ramsay had moved 
during the last two seconds, so as to stand di- 
rectly betwixt the other and the fireplace, where, 
putting weapons of defense out of the question, 
the one bell-rope hung. 

There was little chance of a shout bringing 
timely succor ; and, even if it had not been so, 
there was manhood enough left in the old civilian 
to make him loth to cry aloud for help against a 
single unarmed enemy. Indeed, the physical 
odds against him were not so great. He had 


the advantage in height and weight, and proba- 
bly in strength, if not in activity ; and, though his 
gaunt frame had waxed thinner of late, it had 
not become bent or emaciated, and there was a 
tough, wiry look about it still. But there was 
no question of physique here, A thirsty eager- 
ness for the struggle on the one .side, was op- 
posed to shuddering reluctance on the other ; 
and, had you seen the two, you would no more 
have doubted as to the result, than if you had 
watched a panther crouching for his spring on a 
buffalo. 

“You — you are mad!” Anstruther gasped 
out. “ Have you forgotten that — that your life 
is forfeit, when you’ve taken mine ?” 

The other broke into a ghastly laugh, and 
drew ever -so little nearer — very slowly ; it seem- 
ed as though he saw the terror he inspired, and 
savored it as part of his vengeance. 

“ Forgotten ? No : I have forgotten nothing. 
What you have done is no hanging matter — what 
I’m going to do is — that’s clear as day. It’s 
only a sort of suicide after all ; and it’s a pleas- 
anter way than knotting one’s own noose. You’ll 
have made clean work of it between you — you 
and yonder wife of mine.” 

A passion, with which animal fear had naught 
to do, rang out in Anstruther’s cry. 

“ My God ! Is it possible you suspect your 
wife of having art or part in this ? See — I speak 
as if I were on my death-bed. By all my hopes 
of mercy, she’s as innocent as any of heaven’s 
angels. You shall — you shall — believe me.” 

“I believe you,” Mark answered. “And 
she’ll have the benefit of her innocence — if that’s 
any consolation to you. If I’d time to think 
about such trifles, perhaps I might wonder what 
has made you so zealous to serve, and so anx- 
ious to shield her! We’re past all that — now. ” 

And even as he spoke, he drew nearer ; and 
the hungry glitter brightened in his eyes. 

The bitterness of death comes not always just 
before the death-pang ; and those who tottered 
and stumbled at the entrance of the Dark Val- 
ley, have been known to walk steadily enough 
when they were far within the shadow. So it 
was now with George Anstruther. Whether it 
was the mere energy of despair that sustained 
him, or. whether the generous impulse prompt- 
ingjhis last intercession abode with him still, 
no f one will ever know. But, assuredly, he did 
not die a coward. 

“ I loved your wife,” he said, speaking quite 
firmly. “Does not that account for all? I 
loved her that day when you and I first met. 
I’ve loved her since — so well — that I repent to- 
night’s work no more than if I’d set my heel on 
an adder in her path. I love her now — so well 
— that I’ll save her, in spite of you, from the 
shame of having married a felon. You thought 
I was afraid of death ? So I was : but it was 
of death in your fashion, not in my own. Be- 
fore I knew you were coming, I was ready, with 
— this.” 

He felt in his pocket ; and, with the quickness 
of thought, drawing forth the tiny silver tube, 
crushed it betwixt his strong white teeth. 

With a spring like a wild-cat’s, Mark Ramsay 
cleared the distance betwixt them ; but his fin- 
gers gripped a throat that never felt the pressure ; 
and of the two bodies that crashed on the floor 
together, the life was in only one. 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


131 


The fury of revenge mingled with a [ 

natural horror in the survivor’s face, as he 
shook himself clear of the corpse and arose. As 
he grew calmer, he began to debate with him- 
self what was to be done. After two or three 
minutes spent in deep thought, he walked to the 
door and unlocked it, and then rang twice or 
thrice violently. Not for one instant, while he 
waited there, did he avert his gaze from the 
corpse ; and, not for one second, did his eyes 
alter their expression of hate and loathing. 
Two or three servants came hurrying up — Pres- 
cott foremost. It was to this man Ramsay ad- 
dressed himself. 

“ Your master has taken poison. He took it 
too suddenly for me to stop him ; though, of 
course, I tried. He took it, to save himself from 
being arrested for the crime that was done here 
to-night.” 

The valet was too utterly prostrated by the 
annihilation of his golden dreams, to do more 
than repeat, “Poisoned himself!” 

“There’s no doubt about it,” Mark Replied. 
“There’ll be some sort of inquest or inquiry, I 
suppose ; and it will be well for you — and you 
— and you — ” he glanced from one to the other 
of the servants — “ to take notice of— this.” 

Shuddering and shrinking, they followed the 
direction of his finger. It pointed to the silver 
tube still crushed betwixt the clenched teeth. 
Human help was so palpably useless that no one 
thought of rendering it ; and all followed Ram- 
say out of the room in silence. 

“ Speak as little about this as can be helped ; 
or, at any rate, speak low. And keep this door 
locked till the doctor comes,” Mark said to Pres- 
cott. ‘ 4 He can go in if he thinks proper, after 
he has visited Miss Irving.” 

Then he walked slowly away, whither you 
will presently see. 

“What a fool I was to trust him!” the valet 
muttered to himself disconsolately. And this 
— setting aside exclamations of wonderment 
amongst his acquaintance when the news was 
bruited at the Orion, and the self-congratulations 
of the successor to his pension — was the only 
funeral oration pronounced over a man who in 
his time had filled high places with honor; a 
man whose word was as his bond, and whom 
Walter Ellerslie had trusted like a brother. If 
not a model of Christian charity, he had seldom 
willfully or wittingly broken God’s laws, or hurt 
one of God’s creatures, till the night when — hav- 
ing sinned heavily in both wise — he died unre- 
penting. 

Finis coronat opus. The dullest schoolboy has 
that by heart before he has got half through his 
rudiments ; but sometimes wise elders will be very 
near the End, before they are assured whether the 
Crown will be one of shame or glory. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

It was in truth only a fainting-fit into which 
Blanche had fallen a while ago ; but it lasted 
long, and when she partially recovered, her sens- 
es seemed to be wandering. Her first intelligi- 
ble words signified a wish to be left alone again 
with Laura Brancepeth';. so the maid was dis- 
missed, to wait in the sleeping-chamber till she 
should be required. 


“Now you mustn’t excite yourself, dear,” La 
Reine said. “And whatever you do, lie still 
for the present.” 

“Lie still!” Blanche moaned. “How is it 
possible ? Oh, Laura, if you knew — ifyou knew — ” 

“But I do know,” the other retorted in her 
impetuous way. “It’s not hard to guess, that 
your husband’s furious at what has happened 
to-night, and came to vent his wrath on you. 
That’s so like a man, and especially like a hus- . 
band: even Henry does it sometimes, though 1 
he’s rather afraid of me. He didn’t say it was 
your fault, I suppose?” 

“No, ’’Blanche murmured. “He didn’t say 
it was my fault, though he said many cruel 
words — such as I could never forget, even if I 
forgave them. But, Queenie — he suspects the 
same person that I did, and I think he is gone 
there now. What will happen to us all?” 

La Reine looked somewhat blank at this, 
though she made shift to answer carelessly. 

“Happen to us? Nothing worse than has 
happened already, you may depend upon it. 
Mark knows better than to bring such a charge 
against one of his guests on mere suspicion — 
more than suspicion there could not be. If he 
were mad enough to do such a thing, Mr. An- 
struther would not condescend to plead ‘ guilty ’ 
or ‘ not guilty,’ but leave the house at once. It’s 
the only thing he could do. Every one will be 
going to-morrow, as it is, I should think — ex- 
cept me, of course. I shall stay till I take you 
south.” 

Her assumed cheerfulness had small effect. 
It could not bring back the light on Blanche’s 
face, nor still the tremors that shook her almost 
incessantly. 

“You don’t know Mark,” she panted. “I 
never knew him myself before to-night. I wish 
— yes, I do wish — -that I had died yesterday. 
No : I’m not wandering, Queenie — nor dream- 
ing. If one could only wake, and find all this 
was a dream ! I feel that some worse horror 
will happen yet ; and it will be all — all through 
me.” 

Laura Brancepeth’s wits were good service- 
able ones, not easily to be scattered ; but they 
were getting into sore confusion. It was useless 
to argue with Blanche in her present state ; and 
yet, if she could not be pacified, serious harm 
must needs ensue. 

“What can I do, dear?” she said, half-de- 
spairingly. “ Shall I call in Wright to take care 
of you, and go and find Mark and bring him 
here ? Any thing’s better than your torturing 
yourself so.” 

For the first time since her swoon, Blanche 
opened her eyes, and fixed them on her friend 
eagerly. 

“ Ah, if you could do this, Queenie — if— if 
you were not afraid — ” 

“Afraid !” Laura retorted in supreme scorn. 

But her dauntlessness was not put to the 
p V 00 f — a t least, in the way she had intended ; 
for, as she rose up to call in the maid from the 
adjoining chamber, the door of the dressing-room 
opened, and Ramsay entered once more. 

It was recorded long ago that the best point 
in Mark’s rare personal beauty was the soft rich- 
ness of his coloring. This would certainly have 
never been noticed now, for the color seemed to 
have faded in some strange way out of his eyes 


132 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


and lips, and his clear olive cheeks looked sick- 
ly and wan, but the malignant lowering was no 
longer on his face: he only looked intensely 
weary. lie did not speak till he came quite 
close to the two women, and then it was in a sub- 
dued tone. 

“ I did not mean to disturb you again to-night ; 
but I have no choice. Something has happened 
since I saw you last.” 

La Reine had risen, and stood betwixt hus- 
band and wife, holding Blanche’s hand fast, as 
though she would have shielded her from some 
bodily harm. 

“ Good heavens ! what is it ?” she cried out 
angrily. “Surely we have no fresh disasters to 
hear of?” 

“ Why not?” Mark answered, still in the same 
slow, deliberate voice. “ Would you call it a 
disaster, if the author of this crime had been 
discovered, and made confession ?” 

Laura’s hand was wrung till she could scarcely 
bear the pressure, as Blanche started up with a 
piteous wail. 

“Mark! Mark! You will — you will — have 
mercy?” 

He never blenched before that agony : indeed, 
you might have fancied there hovered round his 
lip the shadow of a smile. 

“ Are you interceding for George Anstruther ? 
You may spare your breath. A priest’s prayers 
might help him now — if priests can help the 
dead.” 

Cruel as this man was by nature — tenfold 
crueller now in the bitterness of half-slaked re- 
venge — I believe, had he guessed of the effect of 
his words, he would no more have uttered them 
— in that shape — than he would have driven a 
knife straight to his wife’s heart then and there. 
Had he done so, it would scarce have been quick- 
er work. 

Whilst the last syllable lingered on his lips, 
Blanche stood upright on her feet, clasping both 
hands tightly on her side, and staving at him 
with wild, haggard eyes. Then a change — other 
than he had seen there lately — such a change 
as can come but once on any human face- — swept 
across hers, and she sank back on the couch 
with a long, gasping sob. Her hands dropped 
idly down, and she lay quite still. 

The old physician’s prophecy had come true ; 
though not in the sense in which it was spoken ; 
and sooner than he had reckoned on. It was 
“ well ” with Blanche Ramsay at last. 

What passed during the next quarter of an 
hour Laura Brancepeth could never distinctly 
recall. Perhaps she did not care to tax her 
memory too closely. She had a hazy impression 
of having poured forth a torrent of upbraiding, 
and of Mark’s having listened — gazing at her 
always in the same dreamy way — as though her 
bitterest words stung him neither to remorse nor 
anger. He must have made her understand 
somehow that, howsoever accountable he might 
be for the shortening of the frail life just ended, 
George Anstruther’s blood was not actually on 
his head; but how he did this, she could never 
recollect. She remembered the maid’s rushing 
in, and then out into the corridor to seek for 
help ; and she remembered that a certain relief 
mingled with her terrors, when she found her- 
self watching the corpse alone. 

When Laura Brancepeth shall come to the 


hour when, for her soul’s s§ke, it will behoove 
her to be in' charity with all men, one name, as- 
suredly, will be excepted from the amnesty. 
Yet perhaps it is as well she never knew that 
Mark Ramsay went straight from her presence 
into that of Alice’s father. 

To give Irving his due, no disaster of Ins’ own 
would have brought such dejection on his face as 
possessed it whilst he sat brooding over that 
which had befallen his daughter ; but natures 
such as his, are more often hardened than soft- 
ened by any great sorrow ; and, as he looked up 
and saw who it was that entered, his brows con- 
tracted gloomily. If he did not hold Mark ac- 
countable, as it were, in the second degree, for 
Alice’s calamity, it had, at all events, occurred 
under his roof, and this was quite sufficient to 
make the sight of him unwelcome just now. 

“The doctor is come, of course?” Irving in- 
quired, with something in his tone which signi- 
fied that, without some such excuse, the intru- 
sion was unwarrantable. 

; he has not come yet,” Mark replied ; 
“ but it was needful I should see you at once. 
You asked me, an hour ago, if I could give no 
guess as to the meaning or author of the devil’s- 
work yonder. I could guess at neither, then ; 
but both are known to me now. That’s what 
I’ve come to tell you. Be patient a minute,” he 
went on, as Irving rose up with such a fell men- 
ace on his face as would be hard to describe — 
“I must say out my say, once for all. I’m not 
going to deny that the scandal-mongers might 
have found fault with my intimacy with Alice ; 
and I’m not going to prove to you that it was 
innocent, at this time of day : if you had thought 
otherwise, I should have heard of it long ago. 
It’s sufficient to know that some people looked 
on her as my wife’s worst enemy ; and that this 
thought was uppermost in George Anstruther’s 
mind, when he mixed his poisons to-night.” 

“You know all this,” the father said in a sav- 
age whisper. “And you mean to hold your 
hand, and ask me to hold mine ?” 

“What would you do?” said Mark Ramsay 
drearily. “They are both dead.” 

Irving staggered a full pace backward, with a 
dreadful question in his eyes that to save his 
life he could not then have put into words. The 
other laughed — much as he had done when he 
answered Anstruther. 

“You think I killed them ? I don’t wonder. 
I did mean to kill him; but— curse him! — he 
was too quick for me. She died five minutes 
ago, in a heart-spasm.” 

“Tell me more,” Irving said under his breath. 

The first horror had left him, and all the pity 
he had to spare was engrossed by his own daugh- 
ter. Nevertheless, it was with an awe such as he 
had never known, that he listened to the brief 
story of what you have just read — such an awe 
as the toughest skeptics have felt when the air 
around them was heavy with death. But always 
in his mind the thought was uppermost of how, 
on the first hour of their meeting, he had con- 
ceived a vague dislike and apprehension of 
George Anstruther ; and how, in his folly, he 
had said, “He can not harm me and mine.” 

Moreover, though he himself would have scoffed 
at the idea — or, at the most, would only have ad- 
mitted fatality — he was overborne by* a strange 
sense of helplessness : by a consciousness that 


133 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


all these rough-hewn ends had been shaped by 
other hands than those that first fashioned them 
—perchance, by the hands of Him who said, so 
many ages ago, “Vengeance is mine.” There 
i3 a weak point in almost all infidelities; and 
many, before atheism was put to the last crucial 
test, have cried in their hearts — if not aloud — 
Vicisti , Galilcee ! 

What were Alice Irving’s thoughts when she 
heard how swiftly and completely she was 
avenged? It was one of her attendants that 
brought the news. The woman was too fright- 
ened to speak coherently ; but Alice divined all 
the tragedy as completely as if it had been en- 
acted before her eyes. 

The evil calculation had come right to the let- 
ter. Her life had outlasted — perhaps was likely 
far to outlast — her rival’s ; and what did that 
profit her ? She knew, not less surely than if a 
hundred surgeons had sentenced her, that her 
beauty was marred, not for a season, but for ever- 
more ; she knew, not less surely than if his own 
lips had uttered the bitter words, that, thence- 
forth, pity was the uttermost she- could expect 
from Mark Ramsay. Though his love, in spite 
of the guilt that loaded it, had been so precious 
to her, she had always recognized it as a passion 
strong chiefly in its sensuousness, and one that 
would prove unstable as water under such a trial 
as this. 'There was the stale formula of consola- 
tion — “They might be friends still.” Friends! 
Alice almost gnashed her teeth as she thought 
what a horrible hypocrisy such a pretense would 
be, betwixt herself and the man who that day 
had kissed her brow. She felt the print of his 
lips yet, amid all those burning pains. 

Moreover, though her conscience had slum- 
bered of late, she was not so unsexed as to be 
proof against natural remorse. She knew that 
both the lives lately sacrificed might be required 
at her hand — well-nigh as justly as though she 
had wittingly dealt the death-blow — and that she 
must carry to her life’s end that load of blood- 
guiltiness, with never a break of feverish or guilty 
happiness. 

Amongst the mysteries of theology with which 
it is not fitting the laity should meddle, the 
doctrine of Penance may surely be reckoned. 
Perhaps pain, not self-inflicted or voluntary, may 
not much avail to atone. Nevertheless, wise and 
good men have held that the punishment of any 
misdeed whatsoever must n^eds be finite, though 
with the measure thereof, we, who are “shapen 
in wickedness,” have naught to do. If they have 
not erred, Alice Irving must needs have expi- 
ated, that night, some portion of her mortal sin. 

o 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

The smoking-room lay at the extreme end of 
one of the wings of the castle, and it was too re- 
mote for any sound from the other parts of the 
house to penetrate there — unless it were such a 
cry as had startled its occupants an hour ago. 
The servants, who were cognizant of Ansthruth- 
er’s death, obeyed orders, and discussed it only 
amongst themselves and stealthily. 

Neither of this, nor of the other tragedy, were 
Alsager or Gauntlet made aware till the door 
opened, and Ramsay appeared. There were no 


signs of passion on his face — only that weary 
look of exhaustion. And yet both guessed, be- 
fore he spoke a word, he had blacker news to 
tell than any they had already listened to. 

“ Is she much worse ?” Alsager asked. 

“You mean Alice Irving?” Mark replied, aft- 
er he had filled and drained a great goblet of 
iced water. “Not that I know of. When last 
I heard of her she was in rather less suffering. 
But I have heavy news for you. Anstruther 
has committed suicide, after confessing himself 
the cause of her disfigurement. I was present ; 
but not near enough to prevent him. The poi- 
son did its work quicker than a bullet. There — 
you needn’t waste pity on such a hound as that : 
there’s worse behind. Not a quarter of an hour 
ago, I broke the news to Blanche. I did it as 
cautiously as I could, and Lady Laura was there 
with her; but her fright brought on a spasm of 
the heart, and she died almost instantaneously.” 

“ Dead !” 

The word broke from the lips of both simul- 
taneously ; but in the one case there was only 
the shock of surprise, in the other there was the 
crisis of a strong heart’s agony. And as Gaunt- 
let covered his face with his hands, he groaned 
aloud. 

For months past he had seen the end coming 
nearer and nearer, and he had known that noth- 
ing short of a miracle could avert or perhaps 
delay it ; but, now that it had come, it seemed 
to him like some hideous nightmare. He could 
not realize at first that the delicate, mobile lips, 
whose smile when it lost its mirth did not lose 
its pleasantness, were now still and set ; or that 
the eyes, which had never looked on him un- 
kindly, were lustreless and dim ; or that the 
voice, which, when he last heard it, had stirred 
his pulse not less powerfully than in the old days, 
was dumb for evermore. When he did realize 
all this, there began a struggle in Oswald’s breast, 
such as must needs leave traces long after it is 
ended ; and he was beset by a temptation the 
like of which he had never encountered. It was 
no other than a longing to add another crime 
to the catalogue of that night — black enough al- 
ready — if indeed it were a crime : to grapple 
Mark Ramsay’s throat as he would have done 
any other felon’s, and to exact of him life for life. 

For then, assuredly — even if he grew more 
charitable in the after-time — he held this man 
no less accountable for the death of the woman 
whom he, Oswald Gauntlet, had loved so dearly, 
than if the murder had been wrought by a down- 
right brutal brow. It was because he loved her so 
dearly that he restrained himself. If Blanche’s 
name must indeed be mixed up in this sorrowful 
and shameful story, it was not for him to add 
thereunto another ghastly chapter. Had she 
been living still, her wan hand would have been 
surely raised to warn him from reprisals, and he 
would surely have obeyed the beckon. So — 
now as then — let her have her will. But, albeit 
he prevailed in wrestle over the devil that fought 
savagely within him, he prevailed not so far as 
to endure Mark’s presence. When he rose up, 
it was with averted face ; and their eyes never 
met, as he walked out of the room silently and 
swiftly. 

The other two kept silence likewise for a full 
minute after the door had closed behind Gaunt- 
let, till Ramsay broke it impatiently. 


134 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; OR, 


“ What are you thinking of? I’d rather hear 
you speak, than watch you stare.” 

“Is it worth while to ask?” the other said. 
« If my thoughts ever mattered much, it’s rather 
late in the day to ask for them. Besides, if I 
were to tell you, it might only breed a quarrel, 
and somehow I don’t feel up to that. We had 
best let ill alone. After all, I’ve no right to 
judge you.” 

“I understand. You write down every item 
of what has happened here to my account. You 
are not unjust, I dare say.” 

There was a helpless depression in his manner, 
that moved the other to answer less harshly. 

“ I don’t know that. The fatalists — I’m more 
than half a fatalist — would say you were only an 
instrument. If it is so, I’m selfish enough to be 
glad you were picked instead of me. Mark, I’d 
have changed places with you pretty often with- 
in the last two years: I wouldn’t do that to- 
night ; and I wish the night was over, with all 
my heart and soul.” 

“ Do you think to-morrow will be any better ?” 
Mark asked wearily, “or the next day, or the 
next ? Do you remember, what I said when we 
talked it over in my chambers ? We have ‘ dreed 
our weird’ with a vengeance. You’ve never 
asked me how it all happened. I’d rather tell 
you and get it over, though I’ve told it once al- 
ready.” 

As Alsager listened to much the same story 
as Irving had heard, it was evident that his in- 
terest in the first catastrophe did not go beyond 
wonder and curiosity. He was not in the habit 
of scattering his sympathy broadcast ; and 
George Anstruther’s suicide moved him very lit- 
tle more than if he had read it in the public 
prints. 

“ That was a devilish narrow escape of yours,” 
he remarked coolly, when he heard how Mark’s 
murderous intent had been anticipated. “It 
was a very natural impulse, I’ll allow ; but, at 
our time of life, we ought to have got beyond 
such things ; and so you’d have thought, when 
you found yourself in the dock. I doubt if 
they’d have brought it in even manslaughter ; 
unless Nevis had tried you. It’s very odd I 
should have always suspected him. I told 
Gauntlet so, and he wouldn’t have it at first. I 
wonder what he thinks of it now — or of any 
thing else, for that matter? I never saw any 
man more thoroughly knocked out of time. Go 
through with it : it’s no use halting when you’ve 
got so far.” 

But as Alsager listened to the details — still 
more brief — of the second calamity, the hard 
cynicism vanished from his face ; and, when all 
was told, he drew a long breath very like a sigh. 

“It was over so quickly, she could not have 
suffered much,” he said. “I’m glad of that, 
poor thing. She had her share of it before. 
That was the time to pity her ; and I did, and 
told you so. It’s absurd to pity her now. Do 
you know, Mark, I believe in many more things 
than people give me credit for ? I like to fancy 
that she’ll find a pleasant berth somewhere — a 
real pleasant one — such a long way off from 
yours and mine. Heart-complaints are curious 
things, and hers might have killed her without 
any meddling of yours. Perhaps that’s the best 
way of looking at it.” 

The other shook his head, as though putting 


aside the crumb of comfort, if it was so meant. 
He made no answer ; and then again silence en- 
sued. At last said Alsager abruptly : 

“What do you wish every one to do? I 
don’t think Lady Laura will move before the 
funeral. I’ll stay too, if I can help you. What- 
ever you’ve done or left undone, you’ve stood by 
me pretty stanchly since that morning in Flor- 
ence ; and I’ll see you through this, even if we 
cry ‘Quits!’ afterward.” 

Seldom — perhaps never — had any man seen 
such an eager, beseeching look in Mark Ram- 
say’s eyes as glistened in them then. 

“For God’s sake, don’t go !” he muttered hur- 
riedly. “I’m so nearly beat as it is — much 
more than I was after that jungle-fever. I rath- 
er prided myself on my nerve : I shall never do 
that again.” 

“That’s settled, then,” the other answered, 
with his wonted composure. “ I stay. And 
now — how about the Irvings?” 

Mark started, just as he had done once before 
when Alsager set a chord in his musings tingling, 
and from just the same cause. Amid all the 
turmoil through which he had lately passed, be 
sure he had found time to ask of himself that 
question more than once. Alice had gauged 
very accurately the length and breadth and depth 
of his love ; no more life lingered in it now, than 
was in the corpse of his wife up stairs. It was 
the spectral semblance of love that he had to 
face henceforth ; a man of his temperament had 
better, tenfold, be haunted by any “dull me- 
chanic ghost ” than by such a one as this. He 
had not yet confessed as much to himself ; and 
he certainly was not prepared to confess it to 
even such an old friend as Alsager. Neverthe* 
less, he shifted his posture uneasily as he an- 
swered. 

“The Irvings — ? They must stay here for 
the present, of course. She could not possibly 
be moved in her present state ; though, if that 
dead dog did not lie, her life is in no danger.” 

“They must remain here for the present, nat- 
urally,” the other persisted ; “ but afterward — ” 

Yere had not any intention of tormenting; 
yet compassion for Blanche Ramsay was still 
strong enough within him, to make him watch 
with some satisfaction the other’s embarrass- 
ment. 

“Afterward!” Mark retorted peevishly. 
“tDidn’t I tell you ijiy nerve was gone for the 
moment?” 

It was a relief at least to one of those two, 
when a servant came into the room to say that 
the doctor had arrived. 

Mr. Brancepeth-was one of those whose very 
existence, in time of great emergency, their fel- 
lows are apt to ignore : no one, from first to 
last, had thought of rousing him. But, far in 
the night, he was waked from a placid and not 
unstertorous slumber by a light touch on the 
shoulder, and by a warm drop falling on his 
brow. Without being intrepid, he was a very 
self-possessed person ; nevertheless, during his 
first waking moments, he felt a slight tremor as 
he doubted whether he saw a vision or no. That 
white, tear-stained face ought rather to have 
belonged to the Brown Lady who was said to 
walk at Ivenlis, than to his gay, daring wife. 
But it was Laura, and no other, that stood sob- 
bing there — so utterly broken down, that it was 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


some time before she could give any rational 
account of wliat had happened. To say that 
her husband was horror-struck faintly expresses 
th<f state of mind in which he was thrown. It 
was not only the intrinsic blackness of the events 
themselves that affected him so strongly. If 
they had occurred in a sphere of life removed 
from his own, and they had been brought before 
him in his official capacity, he would have met 
them with magisterial calmness. But the fact 
of their having been enacted under his very eyes 
— though those eyes chanced to be closed — and. 
of all the actors and sufferers therein being his 
own intimate acquaintance, if not familiar 
friends, seemed to him to involve such an awful 
incongruity, that for the moment he was fairly 
unhinged, and was almost as incoherent in his 
questions as Laura was in her answers. 

Now it is possible that some who read these 
pages may partly indorse the opinion of Mr. 
Brancepeth ; and consider such passions and ca- 
lamities as have been just narrated well suited to 
mediaeval melodrama, but singularly improbable 
in a modern country-house, entirely inhabited by 
members of the upper ten thousand. 

The objection does not sound hypercritical. 
Yet, when there is fever or venom in the blood, 
it matters but little whether its color, as it ran in 
health, was of imperial purple or . of murky red. 
Furthermore — I will take leave to suggest that 
we are in no material respects much politer than 
our nearest neighbors beyond seas ; and that, be- 
fore all things went awry, Choiseul-Praslin held 
no mean rank amongst the ancient names of 
France; and that the tragedy wherewith Europe 
rang from west to east was wrought just twenty- 
two years ago. 

A very heavy heart that night w r as Laura 
Brancepeth’s ; but it would have been heavier 
far, if the last thought on her mind before she 
sank into a feverish sleep of utter exhaustion, 
had not been, that — prosy, and precise, and gro- 
tesque in some points as he might be — it was an 
honest, honorable man, at least, that lay beside 
her : ay, and that — with all her recklessness — 
she had never said or done aught that need shame 
him. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

The doctor who had been summoned to Ken- 
lis was a favorable specimen of a country prac- 
titioner ; and, when he was walking the hospitals, 
had been rather celebrated for nerve and clever- 
ness in the accident-ward ; but the case he had 
now to deal with was far beyond his skill ; and 
though, after hearing the nature of the calamity, 
he had come provided with divers lenitives and 
emollients, he could only succeed in mitigating 
the torture Alice was still enduring. With re- 
spect to a permanent cure, he could hold out 
little more comfort than Anstruther had given. 
Those fearful seams and scars were surely indel- 
ible ; and even though the sight might be saved, 
there was little chance that the beautiful gray 
eyes would ever regain their lustrous softness. 
As a matter of form, without the faintest idea of 
being useful, he visited the scenes of both the 
other catastrophes. He was tolerably callous, 
both from habit and temperament ; but it was 
not without a certain emotion that he laid down 


135 

Blanche Ramsay’s hand, after searching for a 
pulse in vain ; and it was not without a certain 
relief that he closed the door again on the corpse 
of the suicide. 

Few at Kenlis Castle, either gentle or simple, 
closed their eyes that night in more than brief, 
broken sleep, and all were glad to see day break’ 
though it broke but gloomily. 

Laura Brancepeth was up and dressed be- 
times. It was not that she had any thing spe- 
cial to do ; but, when once awake, she could not 
bear to be still. She did not think of leaving 
her rooms, and had just been trying to swallow 
some slight refreshment, when her husband, who 
had risen still earlier, came in. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you; but Major 
Gauntlet is so very anxious to see you, I could 
not refuse to ask whether you were equal to it. 
If you are, I do think it would be a kindness.” 

“ Certainly I will,” she said ; “and I am not 
a. bit surprised at his wishing to see me.” 

A few minutes afterward Gauntlet entered 
alone. His face was very pale, but perfectly com- 
posed, as were his voice and manner. 

“You will guess that I should not have in- 
truded on you at such a time without a purpose. 
I have come to ask you a great kindness. I do 
not think you will refuse it, though if you should 
do so, I shall not take it in ill part. Before I 
leave this place — and I do so within the hour — I 
should like to see her just once ; and I want you 
to go with me as far as the door. Wait— don’t 
decide till you have listened a minute longer. If 
I had ever spoken one vrord to her who is an an- 
gel now, that could shame her where she is gone, 
either in jest or seriously, I would not ask you 
this. Ah — I see you believe me without an oath ; 
but, if I swore it on my death-bed, perhaps the 
world would only half believe. What has hap- 
pened here wilt loe more than a nine-days’ win- 
der ; and the scandal-mongers won’t leave a blank 
in their romance if they can help it. I would 
not have one stone cast at her on my account. 
They may say I loved her — so I did, God alone 
knows how dearly — but they can hardly say that 
I meant dishonor, if my last visit to her is sanc- 
tioned by the kind woman who was her nearest 
friend.” 

The earnestness with which they w r ere uttered 
made the simple words almost eloquent ; and 
Laura Brancepeth’s heart glowed as she held out 
her hand frankly. 

“ I do believe you ; and I never hesitated from 
the first, though I am glad you spoke to the end. 
I will come with you at once.” 

So those two went together — treading softly, 
though on the thick carpet their steps made no 
echo — to the door of the chamber where the re- 
mains of Blanche Ramsay lay ; and Laura stood 
and watched without, w r hilst the other w r ent in, 
closing the door behind him. Through that door 
it is not needful we should follow^. 

Many years ago, walking after nightfall through 
the streets of a town in Northern Italy, I came 
upon an open porch through which poured a flood 
of light from many tapers. On a couch, just 
withinside — in an attitude, not of death, but of 
sleep, for the head w r as propped up by a silken 
pillow — lay a corpse — the corpse of a young, fair 
woman ; there w r as a bright garland on the deftlv- 
braded hair, round the neck a golden chain, and 
on the waxen arms and fingers, jewels not a 


136 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


few. I have looked upon some grewsome sights 
since, but never on one that shocked me so thor- 
oughly. I thought then, and I think now, that 
of all this earth’s pomps and vanities, the least 
pardonable are funeral parades. Whilst the world 
lasts, ceremonials will endure; and when great 
men fall in Israel perhaps there needs must be 
lyings-in-state. Yet those of lowlier degree may 
well hope for peace and privacy on their bier, if 
they have found them not elsewhere. Even in 
a marionette-show, it is well to cover decently, if 
not reverently, the face of the puppet-corpse. 

The minutes that she watched seemed to La 
Reine almost endless ; yet probably not ten had 
elapsed when the door opened again, and Gaunt- 
let came out. His countenance was not more dis- 
turbed than it had been when he entered ; but, 
as he closed his lips quickly after a vain effort to 
speak, even under his thick mustache they could 
be seen quivering and trembling : deathly cold 
those same lips felt when, a second later, they 
were pressed on Laura’s haqd in grateful farewell. 
Neither could she repress a slight shiver, as she 
guessed where they had caught their chill. 

That silent leave-taking was the only one that 
Gauntlet exchanged with any soul at Kenlis. 
He walked straight from that spot out into the 
open air ; leaving word, as he passed through the 
hall, that his servant was to follow him with the 
carriage that was to take them to the nearest 
station. Neither did he turn his head or look 
backward, till Kenlis Castle was hidden from 
view. 

It was long before Laura Brancepeth could 
muster courage to enter the chamber at the thresh- 
old of which she had been watching ; but having 
once ; entered, she was in no haste to leave it ; and 
when she did so, it was with a calm on her spirit 
which was not after violently disturbed. 

The master of Kenlis shut himself up in his 
own apartment after an interview with the doc- 
tor, and would see no one but Alsager; to the 
latter fell the direction of all funeral arrange- 
ments. Only on one point did Mark interfere, 
but there he was stubborn. Vere’s suggestion, 
that it might stifle scandal if Anstruther’s body 
was allowed to remain where it lay to await the 
necessary inquiry, he utterly set at naught, and 
was scarcely induced to grant the shelter of a dis- 
used outbuilding. The other went so far as to 
hint, that there might be difficulty in finding 
bearers willing to carry forth the ghastly burden ; 
for, putting superstition out of the question, the 
servants were fairly demoralized by the events of 
last night. The next minute he repented of his 
caution ; and was haunted long afterward by the 
expression on Ramsay’s face as he made answer. 

“You had better find them soon, as you are 
so squeamish about scandal ; or — I’ll cast the car- 
rion out with my own hands.” 

After this one outbreak he relapsed into sullen 
silence ; and when advertised of Gauntlet’s ab- 
rupt departure only shrugged his shoulders, as if 
to imply that it was just what he had expected, 
and did not concern him in the least. Yet, in 
the midst of this apathy, he seemed to be waiting 
for something — not with any eagerness or impa- 
tience, but with the expectation of one who knows 
sooner or later it must come. 

Though she was any thing but robust in ap- 
pearance, Alice Irving must have possessed an 
exceptionally good constitution, tier system had 


so far resisted a shock that would have shattered 
many athletic ones, that she had kept her con- 
sciousness throughout; and, as the pain abated, 
it seemed as if she might even escape the serious 
danger of fever ; neither was her strength mate- 
rially prostrated. The fingers only of one of her 
hands were injured, where they had touched the 
sponge scarcely soaked in the lotion ; and she 
could use her hand perfectly. Her sight was not 
at all affected, though her eyes had suffered some- 
what from the inflammation around. So when 
she begged to be allowed to write a short note, 
the doctor who remained in attendance objected 
only faintly ; indeed, he thought the risk thus in- 
curred would be less than that of the irritation 
and anxiety which might follow on prohibition. 

This is what Alice Irving wrote, and what a 
few minutes later Mark Ramsay read: 

“ They say my life is safe, and I am glad — or 
I ought to be glad, I am so little fit to die — but 
there is still danger of nervous fever. While I 
am sure of my senses I will write ; perhaps I 
shall be quieter when it is done. Before you 
opened this note, you guessed it came to say 
good-bye — not good-bye for a little while, or for 
so many months or years — but forever and ever. 

“It is not an easy word to write, and it does 
not make it easier that we have both well de- 
served what has come upon us. Yes, upon us ; 
for I know that your sufferings, in another way, 
are not much lighter than mine. I am not, and 
never shall be, a good Christian. It was a sin to 
listen, as I have listened, to much that you have 
said ; yet I scarcely repent it even now. Never- 
theless I know — and you know— that if I could 
have foreseen the least fearful of the conse- 
quences, I never should have listened. Even if 
I were the same Alice that stood by your side 
yesterday, I hope— I can not be sure, but I do 
hope — that I should still be able to say that, of 
my own free will, you and I shall never meet 
again. If no judgment had fallen upon me, there 
never could have been happiness for us two after 
last night. 

“If you ever cared for me at all, you will help 
me now. For pity’s sake do not prevent my go- 
ing home as soon as I can be moved — to lie here 
is worse than the burning. And do not let your 
eyes rest upon me, even for a second— that I 
could not bear. 

“And now we will go our several ways. In 
spite of all, I will believe yours will not always 
be dark and lonely. As for me, I shall at least 
never again have to fight with temptation ; and 
I trust the time yet may come when, without 
blasphemy, I may pray God to forgive us both, 
and to bless you always. A. I.” 

In a strange medley of emotions, Mark pon- 
dered over the almost illegible lines. The ensu- 
ing horrors had not abated the bitterness of the 
wrath and disappointment, aroused in him by the 
first disaster ; nevertheless, the beauty that had 
bewitched him seemed already a thing of the 
past ; and, though he chafed savagely over the 
loss ther^ff, he coveted it no longer. He had 
worked himself into such a dread of an inter- 
view with Alice, that the certainty of its being 
deferred indefinitely, if not forever, was an in- 
tense relief. There was no pain or peril that this 
man would not have incurred in pursuit of his 


137 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


heart’s desire; but he shrank, like the merest 
coward, from the slightest annoyance that must 
needs be profitless. Selfishness in this man was 
sublimed. If he could have followed his strong- 
est impulse, he would have set a hundred leagues 
that night betwixt himself and Kenlis; and 
would have tried on the morrow, whether some- 
where on earth there could not — even for such a 
blow as that which had smitten him — be found 
anodynes. 

His meditations, whatsoever they were, were 
brief ; and his answer certainly was not long in 
penning. 

“ You are far stronger than I if you can hope ; 
and far braver, if you dare to look forward or 
backward. But you shall have your will, now 
and henceforth, neither less nor more than you 
should have had it yesterday. Our ways shall 
lie apart — whilst it pleases you. Only remember 
this. Whilst I have strength and sense left, 
wherever I may be, if you say ‘Come,’ there is 
no power short of miracle shall hold me back 
from you an hour.” 

Was the curtness of the farewell designed in 
kindness or in cruelty? Were the words when 
they were written sincere, or designed to lie ? 
IIow often Alice Irving asked those questions of 
herself, in the dreary after-time, may hardly be 
imagined. She seldom dared wait for her own 
heart’s reply — much less put the doubt to the 
proof. 

But perchance Mark Ramsay may yet have- to 
answer them in a Court where casuistry has nev- 
er yet availed, and where the stubbornest crimi- 
nal has never yet declined to plead. 

o 

CHAPTER XL VI. 

With the fortunes or misfortunes of Blanche 
Ellerslie, it is fitting that this tale should end. 
Neither concerning the events immediately con- 
nected therewith is much more to be recorded. 

Into one only of the catastrophes that had oc- 
curred at the Castle, inquiry was made.. Mrs. 
Ramsay had notoriously so long been ailing, and 
there was so little mystery about the manner of 
her death — especially as it happened in Laura 
Brancepeth’s presence — that they forbore to dis- 
quiet her further. With no pomp, yet with all 
decent observance, they laid her in the family 
vault, under a great whispering birch. And let 
us hope she rests there not less peacefully be- 
cause none of her kith and kin sleep near : for 
never before, within man’s memory, had any 
strange coffin been lowered amongst those bear- 
ing the name and scutcheon of Kenlis. 

With George Anstruther it was different. To 
the circumstances of his death one witness only 
could speak, and from this one he got no more 
mercy dead than he would haA r e met with living. 
If Mark Ramsay did not stoop to exaggeration, 
that he extenuated nothing is most sure ; and, 
albeit his testimony was delivered with perfect 
calmness, more than one of his hearers were 
aware of a scarcely suppressed rancor. One of 
these — a shrewd old tacksman — put into words 
the thought that was probably in the minds of 
more than one of his fellows. 


“ He was ower quick for ye?” quoth David 
Anderson, repeating Ramsay’s words. “Ay, 
mon ; I sare misdoot there are twa sides to that. 
It was written that there suld be murder in this 
house the nicht ; but that it wad be self-mur- 
der was nae sae sure. Guid save us a’ ! The 
auld enemy has been recht busy here, and aiblins 
mair souls than his that lies streekit yonder liae 
fallen intil his net.” 

But those who were bold enough to impute 
malice to the laird of Kenlis, imputed not to him 
false witness. Indeed, his evidence, had it not 
been amply corroborated by that of the surgeon, 
bore too palpably the stamp of truth, that, had 
the inquest been conducted according to “ crown- 
er’s quest law,” some charitable jurors — insisting 
on the utter absence of motive in Anstruther’ s 
first crime — might possibly have prevailed with 
their associates so far as to bring in a milder ver- 
dict of insanity. 

But the procurator-fiscal was a stem elder of 
the Kirk, and would have held such misplaced 
leniency little less than compounding with felony 
— not to say making an actual compromise with 
Sathanas. If crime had been wrought in high 
places, the more reason it should be fittingly 
branded, and not be wrapped up delicately. In 
fine, over George Anstruther no burial service 
was read, and few of those dwelling in or near 
Kenlis know the place of his sepulture. 

When all these things were reported in town, 
the posthumous disgrace attaching to their com- 
rade caused greater scandal at the Orion than all 
the other horrors. Even an Orionite could not 
be considered exempt from mental aberration any 
more than from any other ill to which flesh is 
heir. But to the steady, sponsible bodies pre- 
ponderating there — who even when they plunged 
did it too methodically to ruffle the surface of 
propriety — it seemed incredible that an associate, 
whom they had been used to revere as a club au- 
thority — Anstruther was actually on the com- 
mittee at the time— should even after his decease 
have lain under felonious taint. 

“He must have been mad,” they agreed al- 
most unanimously. Many had noticed, though 
they had never chosen to mention it till now, a 
very queer look in his eyes : for a full year past 
there had been a strange abruptness in his man- 
ner, and — there were fewer still who could re- 
member this — occasional signs of weakness in 
his play. 

‘ ‘ Insanity ? Of course it was, ’’ Lord Blancli- 
mayne growled. “Any decent English jury 
would have brought it in so — and that would 
have been the result of the inquiry yonder, if it 
had been held over a shopkeeper ; but there’s no 
such d — d democrat as your Free-kirk deacon. 
He never misses a chance of snapping at a gen- 
tleman, alive or dead.” 

Truly, so far as devotion to any form of doc- 
trine-established or disestablished — was con- 
cerned, the Viscount might be presumed to speak 
impartially. 

Besides him, there were not wanting some who 
still considered George Anstruther to have been 
an ill-used person, and rather a victim of ap- 
pearances, or of misconception, than as morally 
criminal. 

Before either the funeral or the inquiry took 
place, the livings had returned to Drumotir. 
The doctor, knowing nothing of the undercur- 


133 


BREAKING A BUTTERFLY; OR, 


rent at work, but judging simply from what he I 
saw on the surface, decided that there would be 
less danger in a removal, than in the strain to 
which Alice’s nerves must needs be subjected 
if she remained on the scene of her disaster. 
Her strength still kept up wonderfully, and she 
walked to the carriage that was to take her home 
without faltering or tottering ; but as she passed 
out through the great gloomy hall, there broke 
from under the triple veil that fell to her waist, 
one dreadful sob — scarcely less piteous than the 
first wail of her despairing agony. 

Rumors— though only vague rumors — of the 
truth had got abroad amongst the servants at 
Kenlis, and they liked their dead mistress too 
well to have any kindly feeling toward Alice Ir- 
ving. Nevertheless not one of the few who saw 
her depart, withheld from her some compassion. 
Mark Ramsay was not among these; nor was he 
even made aware of the precise time of Irving’s 
departure. 

The subject had not once been broached be- 
twixt the father and daughter, yet both were 
equally aware that, after that evening, they would 
set foot in Kenlis no more. The former had as- 
sented at once to the removal, aiid had made no 
attempt to take any leave of his host — contenting 
himself with a verbal message to the effect that 
he would not intrude himself on the other till 
after the funeral. 

Irving was indeed more crushed by this blow 
than by any which had reached him — not so 
much, perhaps, on account of its weight, as of its 
exceeding strangeness. The more he pondered, 
the less he saw his way through the future. It 
seemed to him that to be constantly in presence 
of such a calamity as had befallen Alice would be 
more than he could endure ; for you must remem- 
ber that this man, without being in the least sen- 
sitive, was wonderfully fastidious. To look on 
any physical deformity whatsoever was to him — 
although he might have no special interest there- 
in — even more disagreeable than listening to 
singing or music played out of tune. Yet he 
never dreamed of separating himself from his 
daughter. To this man’s selfishness, you see, 
there were limits. However, though he gave no 
outward signs of these misgivings, then and long 
afterward he behaved himself toward his daugh- 
ter with tact, if not tenderness, that would have 
done credit to a more perfect parent. 
“Throughout that autumn and the ensuing win- 
ter, those two remained at Drumour. In the 
spring they went abroad again, and have not 
since returned thither. 

Drumour has been leased for a term of years 
to a wealthy Glaswegian, who — having no more 
eyes for beauties of nature than for the points of 
a picture — looks on the place as a mere shooting- 
lodge, and neglects it accordingly. The lawn has 
lost its soft velvet sheen, and the parterres glisten 
no longer lik a plaques of ruby or turquoise enamel, 
and the creepers that used to twine lovingly around 
Alice’s casement flaunt or trail at their own will 
or the caprice of breeze or rain. 

But, desolate as the house may be, it is bright 
and cheerful compared to the castle you wot of 
hard by. At Drumour at least there are signs 
and sounds of life sometimes — though of a rough 
boisterous sort — whilst at Kenlis, there broods 
always a stillness worse than the stillness of death 
—the stillness of a curse. 


The moors were caught up directly they ap- 
peared in the market ; but if residence at Kenlis 
had been thrown in, it would have hindered rather 
than advance the hiring — for a very simple rea- 
son : the place has such an evil name now, that 
if a tenant could be found hardy enough to inhab- 
it it, it would be next to impossible to find a 
household to minister to him there. There is 
nothing more infectious than superstition, and the 
skeptical Southern serving-man, who has once 
succumbed to terrors — visible or invisible — is 
more helplessly subdued than the most credulous 
Highland crone. The Brown Lady may roam 
at will through the echoing corridors, and it is 
whispered that now she walks not always alone. 
Strange things are reported to have been seen 
and heard by those who staid behind, after the 
departure of the last guest that will tarry there 
for many a day to come, to set the castle in order. 
The natives, who, under the supervision of the 
old housekeeper mentioned above, were left in 
charge to keep the furniture from falling into 
decay, sleep without the walls, and perform their 
duty always betwixt dawn and sunset. Scarce 
one of them, even at high noon, would be bribed 
to go down the dark passage, at the farther end 
of which is a room fast locked and barred — the 
room where George Anstruther escaped out of 
Mark Ramsay’s hands to fall into those of a 
mightier if not a more merciful judge. 

As for the Master of Kenlis, though he has 
wandered since far and wide, he has never wan- 
dered home. It is this constant restlessness that 
is the most remarkable change in the man. He 
was always fond of travelling, but he had taken 
it heretofore in the same listless, easy-going way 
that marked his pursuit of all other amusements ; 
but now he seems incapable of abiding more than 
the shortest space in any one spot. The anxiety 
to be gone is not in any way affected by the liveli- 
ness or dullness of the place of sojourn. After his 
first year— during which time no one knew much 
of his movements — he has not affected to shun 
society — that is, foreign society ; for England and 
he have been strangers since the events recorded 
above. And society outre mer receives him ami- 
ably, if not cordially. He had been unhappy in 
his conjugal relations, of course ; but what else 
could be expected in a land where the sale of 
wives is scarcely obsolete ? The same thing, would 
apply to so many milors, and if Mark’s story was 
a little worse than those of others, it might be 
imputed to his having a little less than his share 
of Britannic phlegm. 

Does he himself look so lightly on his path ? 

That is a question no one can answer, not even 
Yere Alsager. Indeed, though there is nothing 
like enmity, overt or covert between the two, they 
have seldom been seen together since they parted 
at Kenlis, and no man or Avoman noAV is supposed 
to be in Ramsay’s confidence. Neither can it be 
knoAvn whether he Avould have had the courage to 
keep the promise conveyed in his last letter to 
Alice ; for she has never written to say “ come,” 
and, I think, never will. 

Probably this thread has been plucked out for- 
ever from the web of Ramsay’s life. Yet in the 
plucking forth, the whole fabric was frayed and 
tangled past the mending. The woman whom he 
SAvore to honor and cherish, he remembers only 
with A r ague self-reproach and compassion — and a 
| regret, not altogether selfish, that she ever crossed 


139 


BLANCHE ELLERSLIE’S ENDING. 


his path ; but the woman whom to love was dis- 
honor, and whose shame he meditated, though 
he accomplished it not, he remembers with a bit- 
terness that none of the distractions he has not 
scrupled to seek have yet effaced. It may be, that 
Ermengild von Adlersberg’s pupil has not yet 
wrought out his full tale of misdoing ; but assu- 
redly there are certain stings which pierce some- 
times sharply enough through the hide of his 
cruel philosophy. Perhaps, with that solitary- 
exception, there are none living who wish it oth- 
erwise. 

Ramsay and Alice’s father have met once only ; 
at Baden. Both doubtless would have avoided 
the encounter, had it been possible ; but to the 
latter it seemed especially unwelcome. His cour- 
tesy was of the coldest, and his answers to the 
other’s inquiries of the briefest. He simply said 
that Alice Avas as well as she ever Avould be, 
and then changed the subject decisively. Irving’s 
face was not in the habit of telling tales, ne\ r er- 
theless Mark Avas no.t deceived for a moment 
as to the state of the other’s feelings toward him- 
self. 

Familiarity with Alice’s calamity had not made 
Irving hate less the man but for whom it would 
nevnr have been. He hated him moreover — 
though perchance he himself Avould not have 
acted 'otherwise — for having since then stood 
aloof, making no tender of reparation. Tt was 
for her sake alone that he kept back some bitter 
words that Avere just on his lips? 

Irving did not mention that meeting Avhen after 
his gambling bout he Avent back to the place of 
Alice’s retreat. They lived at Baden during the 
winter ; but before the earliest visitors appeared, 
they retired to a quiet hamlet far up the ScliAvartz- 
Avald, Avhere even yet the peasantry have not 
ceased to look Avonderingly after the graceful lady 
AA’hose face has never been seen unveiled. 

We will leave them there. 

La Reine Gaillarde has not abdicated her soa'C- 
reignty ; but if her laugh rings out joyously at 
times, it rings not so often as heretofore. She has 
never quite shaken off theAveight that settled doAvn 
on her spirits that terrible night at Ivenlis. Some 
of her many friends like her the better for the 
chastening of her reckless mood. 

Chiefest among these is Major Gauntlet. Oddly 
enough eA r en scandal-mongers have forborne to 
cavil at their intimacy ; yet there is a secret be- 
tAvixt those tAvo of Avhich the world knoAvs noth- 
ing, and of which they themselves seldom care 
to speak. It may be that the big, brave heart 
will be open some day to receive Avith due honor 


one Avorthy to be enthroned there ; but thus far, 
OsAvald has never breathed in any Avoman’s ear 
even such words as he Avas not ashamed to speak 
to the Avife of Mark Ramsay. 

Lady Nithsdale is as light of heart and foot 
as ever, and still lures her husband on to folloAv 
at a respectable distance along the flowery paths 
it pleases her to tread ; and Regy Avenel is still 
her prime minister and celibate. 

Though Nina Marston still keeps her maiden 
name, she will be Nina Hampton, they say, be- 
fore the summer is out : and, though a feAV may 
envy, not many hate her for having draAvn a 
quaterne in the matrimonial tombola. 

You will scarcely be interested to learn that 
Horace Kendall has had no chance of repeating 
the bold stroke for fortune that he missed so nar- 
roAvly. The mysterious alloAvance with which he 
started in life lapsed long ago, soon after the time 
Avhen the news came home that his god-father, 
Vernon of Vernon Mallory, had gone to his rest, 
or — unrest. He is reported to be studying hard 
in Italy iioav, Avith a vieAv to turn his voice to 
substantial account. With professional attrac- 
tions throAvn in, he may emulate Camille Des- 
moulins before all is done. 

In this weak, erring Avorld of ours, desiderium 
tam cari capitis is not ahvays measured by in- 
trinsic AA r orth. Often to the Avisest and most vir- 
tuous, even after their decease, more justice is 
done by strangers Avho kneAV them only by repute 
than by those Avho knew them familiarly. 

In ancient time there lived a pious person, 
Avho, having walked long before the Lord, in stern 
uprightness, Avas duly canonized. Concerning 
the neAwmade saint a man scarcely less pious, 
though less austere, thus expressed himself : 

“Let us intercede yet more earnestly for the 
peace of the dead, notv that he hath gone among 
them.” 

When Lady Peverell is remoA r ed to a better — 
it can scarcely be a higher — sphere, I think even 
amongst the children she has dragooned into 
helplessness, if they Avere not goaded to rebellion, 
or amongst the poor Avho haA r e eaten the acrid 
bread of her charity, Avill be found regret, so last- 
| ing and sincere, as Avas wasted — if you will have 
it so — on frail Blanche Ellerslie. 

Though the loss left its mark on none so deep- 
ly as on Gauntlet and Vane, there are others be- 
sides — not more given to the melting mood — who 
never remember Avithout bitterness the progress 
of her punishment, and Avho neA'er see, Avithout a 
sinking of the heart, the years bring round the 
! day on Avhich the grace-blow AA r as dealt. 


THE END. 








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